


The Surprise of Our Glory Days

by rabidchild67



Series: The Surprise of Our Glory Days [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), White Collar
Genre: Alien Peen, Case Fic, Crossover, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:17:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Vendorian thieves travel to Earth’s past with a valuable and unstable weapon, the crew of the Enterprise reluctantly pursue to prevent a potential disaster. Luckily, Spock gets an assist from a new acquaintance, one Mr. Neal Caffrey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The White Collar/Star Trek AOS crossover that, frankly, no one was clamoring for. Except for Winterstar. This is set one year into the Enterprise’s five year mission, and early Season 4 of White Collar.
> 
> Title is a lyric from the song, “Someone Like You” by Adele. Artwork by the incomparable kanarek13.

“Ow,” Neal said, looking down forlornly at his ruined suit.

“Please, do not move or you will do yourself further harm,” the dark-haired man informed him. 

Neal regarded the hamburger meat-like state of his abdomen and was inclined to agree. He peered up at the man who held him so gently in his arms and noticed his strangely-groomed eyebrows and pointed ears. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“I am from… France.”

“Really? What part?”

“You should not strain yourself over-much. Disruptor blasts cause much damage to soft tissues. I believe you are experiencing extreme blood loss.”

Given the numbness in his extremities, Neal had to agree with this observation. He could feel his consciousness slipping away now, and, well, he supposed it had been a good run. “Tell my friend Peter Burke that it was fun while it lasted, will you?”

“That would be imprudent as there is no time to find he to whom you are referring.” 

Neal blinked, slightly affronted. “Well, I’m dying, and I figured… last words and all?” He looked up at the strange man, whose face softened and became thoughtful as he reached out a hand and touched Neal’s face so gently, Neal wondered if it had even happened. 

“Not today,” he said quietly, his dark, unfathomable eyes boring into Neal's.

“What?”

“You do not die today, not if I can stop it.”

Neal knew it was impolite, but he laughed just a little; the blood bubbling out of his mouth was only slightly upsetting.

As he was passing out, he heard the man say, “Spock to Enterprise. Two to beam directly to sickbay.”

xXxXxXx

**Two weeks earlier.**

**249 years in the future and two weeks earlier…**

Spock allowed his tensed muscles to relax minimally as the red alert klaxons were at last silenced by the Captain. The flashing red lights of the alert still cast an ominous glow on the Enterprise’s bridge, but at least the alarms that had been sounding were no longer providing a distraction. While Spock himself was able to function quite well under such adverse conditions, he knew that the pitch and volume of such alarms could be unsettling to other species. Especially humanoid species of Terran origin that were currently trying to pilot a starship in pursuit of a pair of Vendorian thieves.

“I cannot. Get. A lock,” Lieutenant Sulu informed his Captain with quiet frustration as he deftly steered the ship in its pursuit of the smaller yet infinitely more maneuverable vessel. Spock resisted the urge to remind Sulu for the third time of the undue stresses his efforts were placing on the ship’s hull. His last admonition had been answered with a slight growl from the pilot and a terse, “Yes, thank you, Commander,” from the Captain.

The Enterprise crew had been on a mission to find this particular pair of thieves – known only as K’t’nga and Grwl – for the last twenty-seven days, and had at last caught up to them in, of all places, a bar on the outskirts of the Martian city of Utopia. The report delivered to them from Starfleet had been that the pair had broken into the Romulan Ministry of Science and stolen a rare sample of trilithium, a highly volatile substance that was purported to be applicable in everything from transwarp drives to high-end explosives, but not much more was known. UFP scientists had little to no information on the stuff, but its threat – and promise – to the Federation was obvious. Known to have been traveling in Federation space for many weeks, the Vendorians had been difficult to track, being a known shape-shifting species. 

And they were going to lose them unless Sulu got his act together.

“Gods, look at that thing go!” Kirk was marveling as the Vendorians’ ship once again evaded the Enterprise’s pursuit and took off like the storied bat out of hell. 

“Keptin, the Wendorians are heading in the direction of Sol,” Chekov said. 

“Lay in a course to pursue, Ensign,” Kirk answered. “What the hell are they doing?”

An indicator flashed on Spock’s console and he investigated what it could mean. Then he made his calculations again and straightened up in mild surprise. “Captain, it would appear from their speed and trajectory that the Vendorians intend to slingshot around the sun.”

“To what end, Mr. Spock?”

“Theoretically, such a tack would use the gravitational attraction of the sun to create an anomaly in space-time, an artificial time warp, if you will.”

“Are you saying they are attempting to time-travel? That’s impossible.”

“Not impossible, just highly difficult, involving very complex and precise calculations. Experiments to that effect were being conducted at the Vulcan Science Academy prior to my home planet’s destruction.”

“Can we follow?”

“Not immediately, unless we know where – or, more accurately, when – they intend to go.”

“Then we had better not let them get away. Make all possible haste, Mr. Sulu,” Kirk ordered. 

“Aye, sir.” Sulu moved to pursue.

“Captain, I must also warn that unless we can apprehend the Vendorian ship before it’s reached its escape velocity, we risk structural damage to the ship in the resulting subspace displacement.

“How much damage, Spock?”

“Our hull could be compromised.”

“Then we’d better not let that happen, Mr. Sulu.”

“Aye, sir.”

Despite a valiant effort, the Vendorian ship – or perhaps its pilot, though Spock thought it imprudent to mention it – were too much for the Enterprise and Mr. Sulu’s skills, and it was on its approach of Sol when Spock was forced to advise the end of their pursuit.

“Back it off, Mr. Sulu,” Kirk said, a frustrated tone in his voice as his helmsman complied. 

All eyes on the bridge were on the view screen as the Vendorians made their final approach of Sol. “Magnify, Mr. Chekov,” Kirk ordered, a weary tone to his voice, and the image became larger. “Will you look at that,” he marveled, and indeed, it was a sight to behold as the very fabric of space-time itself wrinkled in front of the other vessel and it slipped inside it, as if ducking through an open door.

Or so it appeared when Spock would allow himself to study it later. At that moment, he was busy ensuring that all available means of recording and analysis of the phenomenon as it happened had been brought to bear.

“As much as it pains me to admit it, it looks like we’ve failed, ladies and gentlemen,” Kirk informed them all, an edge of frustration in his voice with which Spock was well familiar. “Lt. Uhura, get me Admiral Pike. I’ll be in my Ready Room.”

Jim rose from the Captain’s chair and headed to his office with his head down, shoulders hunched with tension. Spock knew he didn’t relish failure and likely regarded this as one. They’d been chasing the Vendorians for weeks and for this to happen when they were so close was almost too much to bear quietly. Spock thought he had the look on his face like he wanted to punch a hole in a wall – he had done so on no less than seven previous occasions, much to Dr. McCoy’s consternation – and he also thought he had a way to prevent the captain from injuring himself. He rose and followed Kirk to his Ready Room.

“Yes, Mr. Spock?” Jim said wearily, but when he noticed the peculiar glitter in Spock’s eyes that meant he had an important piece of information, he gestured for Spock to enter, then closed the door. “Please tell me you’ve worked out a way to bring the Vendorian ship back.”

“Not specifically, no. I believe, however, that I have enough data to be able to make the calculations so that we may follow them.”

“Follow them?”

“Yes.”

“Through a time warp?”

“Again, yes.”

“Have a seat, Spock.”

Jim had Spock map out the calculations by hand so that he was sure to see the proof of it, but in short order, his mood lifted as it became clear to him that it could be done.

“You are positive they went into the past?”

“The data make it very clear, Jim.”

Jim chewed on his bottom lip in thought. “Trilithium’s a dangerous and unstable substance. There’s no telling the harm it could do in the past, if it’s not properly stored or transported.”

“And if, as has been surmised, the Vendorians have stolen the material for profit, its availability more than 200 years in the past could irrevocably change the course of interplanetary relations.”

“We’ve got to get it back.” 

“I have Admiral Pike, Captain,” Uhura announced over the comm. “Shall I put him through?”

Jim leaned forward into Spock’s personal space. “If we do this, can we get to the same point in time and space as the Vendorians?”

“The same point in space, yes. In time – that is not as precise, but certainly within no more than a week or so.”

“Or so.” Jim ruminated on the facts as they’d been laid out. They really could not risk what might happen – what might have already happened – if the Vendorians were allowed to deliver the trilithium to their buyers. The decision was plain. “Close enough for government work,” he said, slapping Spock on the shoulder as he rose. “Work with Scotty immediately to prepare the ship while I clear this through channels.” Spock rose to go. “Lieutenant,” Jim said over the comm, “please patch Admiral Pike through – see how he feels about us taking a trip down memory lane.”

xXxXxXx

_Summertime and the livin’ is easy_

Neal Caffrey sat on the terrace outside his apartment, sipping Italian Roast and basking in the mid-June sunshine.

_Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high_

He’d found some of Byron’s old records and a portable RCA player and had been steadily making his way through the collection. Ella Fitzgerald was in rare form.

_Oh, your daddy's rich, and your mamma's good lookin'_

“So hush little baby, do-on't you cryyyyy,” came a sweet voice behind him and Neal sat up and opened his eyes. He rose with a smile for June, his landlady, and took the tray of coffee and muffins she bore from her. Neal then held his hand out and the two began to dance a slow two-step to the music. “This is one of my favorite records,” June said, smiling up to him after a few more lyrics.

Neal smiled back, twirled her slowly, then stepped away, bowing to her with a flourish. “Mine too. And apropos – the living has been easy with Peter on vacation for two weeks, I might as well phone it in at the Bureau.”

“Well, maybe you will today, mon frère,” added another voice and June and Neal turned to find Moz standing in the doorway. “I might have a job for you.”

Neal gave Moz a worn-out look. “Moz, I thought we’d instituted a moratorium on capers while I’m still on the anklet. I’ve got less than a year left on my sentence.”

“When you hear what I’ve got going, you will forget all about it.”

“Do tell,” Neal said, not at all feeling or sounding excited. 

“Your lack of enthusiasm had been duly noted. However, in case a bit of enticement might work, I give you…” Moz reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a black silk-wrapped _something_ that he held cupped in his hand as he unwrapped it carefully. Nestled inside was a large, roughly 300-carat, uncut stone whose brilliant orange hue was not at all diminished by the fact it had not yet been cut.

June gasped and Neal leaned forward. “Is that what I think it is?“ Neal reached out his hand to take the stone up.

Moz slapped Neal on the knuckles. “A _padparadscha_ sapphire? It is, and I’ll thank you to keep your greasy mitts off it.” When he re-covered the stone, June gave an audible moue of disappointment. 

“Wherever did you find it?” she asked Moz, eyes wide with wonder. June’s collection of fine gemstones was a popular topic between the two; _padparadscha_ sapphires were the rarest and highest valued in the world.

“I’d rather not say at this time. Suffice to say there are more to be had, and that my ‘contact’ is looking for someone to work out a deal.”

“You mean they’re hot and Heshie wants to unload them fast. Who’d he piss off this time?” Reggie Hesher was an old friend of Moz’s who occasionally brought him in on a score when someone with more than half a brain was needed. He tended to take sloppy risks and had nearly gotten Neal arrested enough times for him to want to steer clear no matter what. 

“He didn’t specify, just that they were from out of town. So, are you in? I need someone who can cut these right and cut them fast.”

“I am not in. I am so not in, I’m out. I am out and proud.”

“Yeah, I get it. Guess I’ll give Nate Spurlock a call then.”

Neal closed his eyes and took a breath. Nate was not among his favorite people, and Neal knew he was better than him. But he refused to be baited by Moz, and besides, he had a really good groove going with Peter lately. “Tell him I said hi,” Neal said slowly and grabbed his hat from the nearby table. Putting it on, he took a muffin and headed towards the door.

“Can’t you stay for breakfast?” June asked, disappointed. 

Neal leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “While I would love to, I should be getting to the office – don’t want anyone telling Peter tales of my shirking. I’ll see you later.”

As he left, he heard June begging Moz to show her the sapphire again, “At my age, I don’t know when I’ll see another,” she said, and Moz was only too happy to oblige.

xXxXxXx

_First Officer’s Log_

_Our attempt to traverse the space-time continuum in pursuit of the Vendorian fugitives has been an apparent success._

_The Enterprise is currently in orbit over the North American continent, using the gravity of the planet’s moon to mask our presence. We have been scanning for trilithium energy signatures for the last twelve hours with little success, nor have we been able to find the Vendorians’ ship. We picked up a faint warp signature leading us to Terra, but it has been distorted by the planet’s gravity. I therefore surmise they have landed on the planet to rendezvous with their buyers._

_We have pinged Vulcan interstellar beacons, and determined that we have arrived in the early 21st Century, a fact that has been met most enthusiastically by the Captain._

\----

“Is Old Yankee Stadium still standing?”

“Excuse me, Captain?” Spock turned in his chair at the science station and regarded Jim with a quirked eyebrow. 

“Yankee Stadium? The Big Ballpark? The House that Ruth Built? Are none of these registering with you, Mr. Spock?”

“Are you referring to a building?” 

“Of course I’m referring to a building – it’s the most famous baseball stadium in all of Terran history.”

Spock frowned. “A sporting stadium? This is what you are excited to see in your planet’s history – not art or music or historical figures?”

“Yankee Stadium delivers all of those things, Spock,” Jim said with a dreamy expression.

Spock turned back to his station shaking his head at the mercurial tastes of his captain and friend, and continued with the sweep of the planet he’d been performing for the last few hours with still no sign of the Vendorians. 

“Twinkies!”

“Excuse me, Captain?”

“Have they got Twinkies in this century?”

“Twinkies are a political movement?”

“They’re better, Spock!” Jim said, who had walked up behind Spock to peer at his computer screen over his shoulder. 

“I confess I am not as familiar with 21st century Earth culture as you are, Captain.”

“More’s the pity, Spock, it was truly the end of an era. You should look into it more.”

“I do have a basic knowledge of the period’s history. Its art, in particular, has long been an interest of mine.”

“But that’s not all, Spock. You have to really immerse yourself, now that you’ve got the chance. Aren’t you at all interested in your Terran heritage?”

“I find the music of the early Baroque period to be most stimulating.”

Jim frowned. “And boring. Spock, if we expect to lead an Away Team planet-side to intercept the Vendorians, who are known to be adept at assimilating alien cultures and fitting in, then I need you to be up on the local culture and customs.”

Anticipating trouble and inconvenience for himself, Spock hastened to respond, “Captain, I do not think –“

“Spock, I am ordering you to immerse yourself in 21st century Terran culture, starting with North America, since it’s most likely the Vendorians are there.”

If Spock were a human, he would have cringed; he settled for sitting slightly less rigidly in his seat instead. “Very well,” he said darkly. “I shall begin with art and architecture.”

“You will begin with music and entertainments. There are about a hundred and fifty billion communications satellites floating around out here – intercept some transmissions.” Jim slapped Spock companionably on the shoulder, turned and walked briskly back to his chair. “And Spock?”

“Yes Captain?” Spock asked, his eyes closed and a long-suffering look on his face as he continued to face his station.

“I’ll expect regular reports.”

xXxXxXx

“Morning, Peter! How was the vacation in Arizona?” Neal asked, taking a seat at the conference room table ahead of the Monday morning staff meeting.

Peter got a glazed look on his face. “Two weeks at El’s parents’ place. Good thing they live on a golf course, or I might have gone insane.”

“Good to have you back.”

“Good to be back. Stay out of trouble while I was gone?”

“I’d say I was successful. Cold cases’ll do that for you.”

“Cold cases will only do that for _you_ , Caffrey,” Diana chided as she walked into the room. “For the rest of us, it’s just another day at the office.”

“Well, I think we’ve just caught an interesting one, and it’s right up your alley, Neal,” Peter said as the rest of the Harvard crew filed in and settled into their seats. He fired up the projection system and showed a picture of a mud-colored rock with a spot of orange peeking through at one end. Neal closed his eyes in recognition.

“ _Padparadscha_ sapphires,” Peter began with a flourish. “What do we know about them?” His eyes were on Neal as he spoke, who kept his mouth shut. “Neal?”

Neal jumped, mock-surprised. “What, has no one else done the required reading?” he snarked. Peter gave him The Look and he straightened up in his seat. “ _Padparadscha_ sapphires are the rarest in the world. They are known for their fiery brilliance and distinctive, pinkish-orange coloring. Since they’re so rare, they are also among the most valuable, with high-end prices topping $30,000 per carat.”

Diana whistled low. “So, did somebody steal one?”

“We don’t know,” Peter answered. “But the word on the street is that someone’s looking to move a large quantity, and given our past – experience – with fine gemstones, we’ve been asked to look into it.”

“I dunno, Peter, has a crime even been committed here?” Neal asked lightly.

“Only you would question that,” Peter replied. “And, I suppose, your point has merit. But it costs nothing to make a few discreet inquiries, beat a few bushes.”

“Cost you nothing, maybe. It’s my reputation on the line here,” Neal groused. 

“I’m sure it’ll survive just fine,” Peter said dismissively, and went on with the meeting. Neal, meanwhile, silently planned all the ways he was going to kill Mozzie.

\----

“Good evening, mon frère.”

“Moz. Where have you been? I left you three messages – oh, hi, Heshie.” Neal didn’t think the bland smile he shot at Moz’s associate went far enough to mask his distaste for the man, but then again, Reggie Hesher was never one to be overly sensitive to others’ behavioral cues. A slight, balding man who was a good two inches shorter than Moz, Heshie was a two-bit hustler and sometime fence with aspirations that were often larger than his skills. The last time Neal had allowed Moz to talk him into a job with the guy, they’d all nearly been caught by the cops, with Neal spending the worst night of his career hiding in a boiler room in the basement of an art gallery in Boston. He’d come out of the gig five pounds lighter and missing his favorite leather jacket, which he’d had to leave behind the next morning as he was leaving, the security guard taking his morning rounds earlier than expected.

“Hey, Neal? How’s it goin’? Nice weather we’re having?” Heshie had the nervous habit of phrasing everything as a question.

“Sure,” Neal said in as unfriendly a tone as he ever managed. Heshie, clueless, went to take a seat on Neal's couch. “Moz,” Neal said in a leading tone, approaching Moz where he was standing, choosing a bottle of wine from Neal's collection.

“Before you start, I _had_ to bring him with me. Someone’s following him,” Moz whispered.

“So naturally you brought him here.”

“It’s the first thing I thought of.”

“You have a dozen hideouts throughout the city.”

“I panicked. Anyway, we took every precaution coming here, and came in the back door. Marta was very understanding.” Marta, June’s housekeeper, delighted in indulging Neal, and in her mind, Moz was part of the deal.

Neal resisted the epic eyeroll that was brewing, and counted to three. 

“So listen,” Moz went on, “I brought some more of the stones for you to look at.”

Neal's eyebrow ratcheted up. “Why?”

“So you could have another look.”

Neal stared at him.

“You seemed so interested before.”

Neal continued to stare at him wordlessly. 

“Fine, I had a fight with Nate over price and he refuses to work with me now.”

“Jesus, Mozzie, I told you I wanted nothing to do with this!” Neal grabbed the glass of wine Moz had just poured for himself and stalked away.

“Neal!”

Neal spun around. “’Neal!’ nothing, Moz. Do you know the FBI have already caught wind of this little operation of yours? They want me to put feelers out. You know that never ends well. Not for me or for you. I can’t afford to get in more trouble, not this close to the anklet coming off.” 

“I know, Neal, but this is the score of a lifetime.”

Neal gave Moz a withering look. “We already had that, and look how well it went. I’m telling you, Moz –“

“Fine!” Moz interrupted him. “You leave me no choice but to tell the truth!”

“Stop looking so dramatic about it.”

“I’m a little short,” Moz said in a low voice.

“What was that?” Neal cupped his hand to his ear, bending over to catch it.

“I need the money, OK? I may have… made a few… questionable investments, and let’s just say there are balloon payments due…”

“ _On the Take_?” Heshie piped in from the peanut gallery.

“What?” Neal asked, turning to him.

“The horse?” was his reply.

Neal sighed, recognizing the name. “You had a horse in the Belmont Stakes?”

Moz was squirming. “And the operative word in that sentence will be ‘had’ if I can’t get my hands on a quarter mil in the next three months.”

Air exploded out of Neal's lungs. “A quarter of a million _dollars_?! Mozzie!”

Moz merely shrugged and looked itchy. Neal did some math in his head. “There’s no way you’ll clear that just fencing the stones for this idiot,” Neal hooked a thumb at Heshie.

“Hey?” Heshie protested.

“Heshie’s cutting me in for 40%.”

Neal was immediately suspicious. “40% of what? What’s the original thief want for ‘em?”

Moz stared at the ceiling.

“Whose are they?” Neal pressed, and got no answer. He grabbed Moz’s arm. “Moz!”

“They’re Heshie’s! He stole them fair and square.”

“Jesus tap-dancing Christ,” Neal muttered.

“Which is why we need somewhere to store them, actually,” Moz said, pre-emptively wincing as the words came out, before Neal could even react.

“And you thought you could just keep them _here_?” Neal could feel the vein in his forehead begin to throb. 

“Someone’s been following me?” Heshie said, suddenly standing beside Neal, making him jump. “And Mozzie said this would be the safest place?”

“And you know, I figured, since you might want to cut them now that… you know, proximity and all…” Moz finished lamely.

Neal closed his eyes and counted to ten. Then he counted to twenty. When he opened them, both men were still standing before him: Short and Shorter. He sighed again. “Fine,” he said, knowing he’d live to regret it. “I’d better not live to regret this.”

“Aces, Neal?” Heshie said, holding two thumbs up.

\----

Neal stepped up to his table and took a seat, rolling up his shirt sleeves and hefting Mozzie’s messenger bag with the stones in it into his lap. Opening it, he was more than a little impressed – there were tens of thousands of carats here, all still very much in the rough, with bits of earth and matrix still clinging to them. He had no intention of cutting them now – even if he had taken the time to set up his flexible shaft machine – but he wanted it near just in case things got interesting. 

Moz and Heshie stood shoulder-to-shoulder nearby, not exactly hovering, but not exactly giving him enough space for his liking. He sighed and picked up his loupe, fitting it into his eye socket as he picked out the smallest of the stones. What he saw stole his breath away and made him actually gasp. The stone – what he could see of it that was unhidden by its rocky shell – shone with an inner brilliance that he had never seen before, and certainly wouldn’t have expected in an uncut stone. He could discern a clear, crystalline structure within that almost glowed, even under the scant illumination of his portable lamp, the light inside literally danced. 

“Moz, you gotta see this,” he breathed, handing loupe and stone to his friend.

“It’s almost like a kaleidoscope,” Moz commented, handing them back a few minutes later. “Have you ever seen anything like it before?”

“Never. I’m going to try to cut a bit off, I think – maybe we can take a look under a microscope later.” Neal placed the stone on the table and affixed a cutting tool onto the FSM, starting the motor and bending to his work. At first, he made almost no mark in the thing’s surface, even if he was using a corundum cutting tool. He pressed down on the foot pedal, speeding up the rotation, and finally he began to see a slight marring in the surface. He pressed his foot all the way down, saw a sudden flash, and then felt the stone fly from his hands as a burst of energy threw him backwards.

Neal blinked and realized he was lying against his kitchen sink with his neck at an awkward and uncomfortable angle, a very painful lump on the back of his head where it had made contact with his cabinet before he fell to the floor. He groaned, trying to get his foot under himself, but the leather soles of his hand-made Italian shoes had difficulty finding purchase on the hardwoods. He was vaguely aware that Moz was hovering over him, trying to help him up, and he let him.

“What the hell was that?” Moz asked.

“That was me living to regret this, Moz,” Neal said darkly and limped painfully back over to the table.

xXxXxXx

Spock looked up as Jim walked into the Officers Mess to find his First Officer seated at their customary back table, an array of PADDs and data cubes arrayed around him. He had taken Jim’s order to immerse himself in 21st century culture very close to heart, and made it his primary project for the last two days.

“What are we up to, Mr. Spock?”

“Popular entertainments, Captain,” Spock answered gravely. “There is much to consume, but I believe I have a passable understanding. One thing troubles me, however, and I am hoping you will be able to provide guidance.”

“Spock, I am flattered. As you know, this is a period in history I am particularly fond of. Please ask whatever you want.”

Spock steepled his fingers in front of his face to gather his thoughts. “I hope I am wording this properly, for I believe it was an issue that was quite divisive in its time.”

“You can neither shock nor disappoint me, Spock, please go on.”

“Very well. Captain, would you consider yourself to be Team Edward or Team Jacob?”

Jim blinked. “I…… never gave that much……. thought,” he said slowly, eyebrows drawn together.

“I find I am irresolute on the matter as well.”

“Ah.” Jim pressed his lips together, trying not to smile.

Spock went on, “I find the young woman, Bella, does not seem to have much to recommend her to either of these young men. She seems dispassionate at best, fickle at worst. It is most illogical.”

“Agreed. Maybe you should read the books for added insight.”

“There are books?”

“Yeah – maybe they’ll shed some light on the topic for you, and you’ll be able to make your choice.”

“That seems like sound advice. Thank you, Captain.” 

The beeping of an alarm on one of Spock’s PADDs interrupted their discussion. Spock picked it up and tapped out a few things. “What is it?” Jim asked, Spock’s sudden focus and rigid posture cluing him in that this was something a lot more important than the dating habits of teen-aged vampires and werewolves.

“The sensors have picked up an energy signature that is unmistakably that of trilithium,” Spock answered before rising and going over to the nearest computer station, Kirk following. Spock called up a mapping program, manipulating it until it showed him what he was looking for. “There,” he said, pointing.

“New York?” 

“Specifically, the island of Manhattan, even more specifically, the Riverside district of the city. I will attempt to reconfigure our sensor array to get a video feed of the address, but it will take some time.”

Jim clasped Spock on the shoulder encouragingly. “Good work, Spock. And be careful – we don’t want to alert anyone planetside that we are here, nor do we want to put a team in play until we fully understand what the situation is on the ground. Don’t want to spook the Vendorians.”

“Indeed, Captain, that is a wise course to take.”

“And don’t slack on the cultural and historic research, Spock – I’d like you to lead the Away Team, so it’ll come in handy.” 

Spock’s face remained as neutral as he could make it, but he could feel the slight relaxation in the muscles around his eyes he experienced whenever he was pleased. Jim had a smile on his face as he left the room.

\----

Spock spent the next several hours observing comings and goings at 351 Riverside Drive. According to public records, the home was privately owned by one June Ellington, who was its sole listed occupant. Despite this, there seemed to be a regular stream of traffic in and out, primarily by two men of small stature. Scans of them as well as the other half dozen people inside showed them all to be human – there was no sign of the Vendorians or whomever they planned to sell the trilithium to on the premises, nor was there any other sign of the trilithium itself. Though the energy signature he’d detected earlier could lead to no conclusion other than that the material was in that house, he could not discern why, nor could he seem to discover where.

As it was late in the local night and most of the humans inside seemed to have left, Spock decided that he could ease his attention on the house until local morning, and once again turned his attention to his absorption of pop culture, wondering what a “Jersey Shore” could be and why he would be interested to learn more about it.

\----

When morning dawned in Manhattan, Spock’s attention was drawn to a bit of movement outside the home he was observing. A young man dressed in the business attire of the times descended the front steps to meet an older, similarly attired man on the sidewalk out front. The young man carried a hat, which he placed atop his head with a flourish, then followed the older man to a motorized land vehicle, and they both got in. 

As they drove away, the sensor readout alerted Spock to the fact there was a stream of data emanating from the young man’s person. Further investigation revealed that the data was GPS coordinates, and that they were transmitting to a central monitoring station located in a building somewhere south of the location Spock was currently watching. Curious, Spock hacked into that system with ease – 21st century encryption technologies were so simple he would have smiled if he were not a Vulcan – and quickly got an important bit of information: the identity of the young man. 

“Neal Caffrey?” Spock said aloud. “I do not believe it.” He turned his seat to a second monitor and called up the biography of the famed 21st century painter and sculptor and there before him was, in fact, a picture of the same young man he had earlier observed. Neal Caffrey, the artist, was as well known in the 23rd century as any artist from previous centuries – daVinci, Van Gogh, Warhol, Bob Ross. A quick scan of Caffrey’s bio provided some pertinent information, and Spock rose to report it all to his Captain, who would find it very interesting indeed.

\----

“So we’re not exactly dealing with nobodies here then, are we?” Jim said in a neutral tone. As usual, Spock could not discern what Kirk could be thinking, but awaited his orders with a sense of faith in the Captain’s judgment. 

“Indeed, no.”

“We’re going to have to be really careful Spock, this is history we’re dealing with. Tell me what you’ve learned so far.”

“I have familiarized myself with Caffrey’s biography. Indeed, aside from my own familiarity with his work, I had not delved into his past before. It is, as you would say, colorful.”

“Do tell.”

“During this period in his life – one of his most prolific, incidentally – he is working in a kind of work-release arrangement for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. In that capacity, he apparently uses his skills to aid them in criminal prosecutions.”

“What the hell could a painter offer the FBI?” Kirk wondered aloud.

“I wondered that myself, but it turns out that the man had been imprisoned for bond forgery, and this arrangement was entered into after he attempted to escape prison.”

“Forgery? I knew he was in prison, but I always thought it was for something political,” Jim said, looking suddenly avid.

“He was, apparently, well-known in his day as a confidence man and thief, among other things. It was not until after his death that his fame as an artist grew.”

“Aren’t all the great ones underappreciated while they live? But what has this got to do with our own situation, Mr. Spock?”

“I believe Neal Caffrey has possession of the trilithium crystals.”

“What leads you to that conclusion?”

Spock hesitated. He found it hard to put into words the surety he felt around this; in fact, whenever he felt an instinct towards anything, he often ignored it. “Instincts” in these matters were illogical and often based on emotional factors more so than facts or data. However, the fact of the matter was that in this case, it was all he had to go on. 

“We know they are in the house. We know he has an… affinity for dealing with stolen merchandise.”

“But would he do business with Vendorians? Most 21st century humans’ heads would explode if they saw an alien.”

“Vendorians are shapeshifters, Captain. Caffrey may not know who he is dealing with.”

“Or, by extension, what, or the dangers of unstable trilithium to the planet. It’s odd that the Vendorians would deal with the local population at all with something this valuable.”

“Perhaps they did not mean to. What if the Vendorians somehow lost control of the trilithium?”

“And what – Caffrey has it? They might do anything to get it back, Spock, anything.”

“I am aware, Captain.”

“Keep an eye on him, Spock, you have no other duties until we get that trilithium back. If he has the trilithium, or knows who does, we’ll be able to get in there quickly and get it back. And if the Vendorians find him, we’ll be there when they do.”

Spock nodded and left the Captain’s Ready Room, heading back to his quarters to begin his surveillance of Neal Caffrey.

\----

Spock became very grateful for the surveillance culture of the 21st century, for he was able to tap into it to keep an eye on Neal Caffrey nearly 24/7, though rarely with the benefit of sound. 

It seemed to Spock that the bulk of Caffrey’s day was spent either in meetings with what he assumed were government agents, performing card tricks for the administrative staff, contemplating a ball made entirely out of strips of some sort of latex derivative, or else doodling on sketchpads he kept in his desk drawer. He wondered at the value of such sketches on the market in his own time, though from what he could see, they were mostly doodles of Caffrey’s co-workers to keep his hands busy. On occasion, Caffrey left the building with the older man Spock had seen him with earlier in his observations, and they took meals and even shared alcoholic beverages together. Spock felt a pang of something like envy as he observed this, but swiftly put it out of his mind as the very height of illogic. He did wonder if the two were romantically linked, however.

On the second evening of Spock’s surveillance, he noticed that Caffrey and his immediate co-workers seemed to be staying at the office past the traditional ending of the business day, and soon all left together to converge on a location uptown. Much activity seemed to be centered around a rather non-descript utility company van, though to be truthful, Spock didn’t see what the men inside it had to do with the installation or maintenance of the local electrical grid – they neither emerged very often nor seemed to be getting much work done on the power lines or in any of the residences in the area. At one point, Caffrey himself emerged and entered a nearby building alone.

“Fascinating,” Spock said with the quirk of an eyebrow as several of the men inside the van – and one woman – stormed out of it quite suddenly and ran into the same building Caffrey had earlier entered, their weapons drawn. From this vantage, relying only on traffic cameras, Spock could not see what was going on inside the building, and he spent several tense minutes waiting for them to emerge. His apprehension was not alleviated by the arrival, eventually, of the local constabulary in addition to an emergency medical vehicle. 

At long last, Caffrey and his friend emerged from the building, the former limping and with a cross expression on his face. The older man seemed to want to guide Caffrey toward the medical vehicle, but Caffrey was reluctant to comply. The older man apparently won the argument, however, as Caffrey was eventually treated for some sort of injury and taken off to the hospital. 

Spock chewed a thumbnail thoughtfully as he manipulated his view to follow the emergency medical vehicle’s progress through traffic to the nearest hospital. It would not do if, in the course of his work, Caffrey was seriously injured, as it could delay them in their mission to recover the trilithium. Getting a sudden idea, he rose from his desk and headed for Engineering.

\----

“Ye want what now, Commander?”

“I need to place a high-capacity surveillance device on the planet, and need your advice on its delivery, Chief,” Spock explained to Scotty, pulling the device in question out of his pocket. “I obtained this the last time we were at Starfleet headquarters – it is the latest in surveillance tech.”

Scotty took the thing from Spock and, opening its box, cooed at it as if it was a small child. “Ooo, lookah the thing, it’s tinier’n a wee bumblebee! How does it operate?”

Spock ignored the man’s outburst and explained, “By remote control. It uses solar energy as a power source and has a range of one thousand kilometers.”

“But how does it _work_? How d’you get it to its destination?

Spock removed it from its box and brushed a fingertip across its sides, holding it close for Scotty to see. “There are tiny filaments that oscillate, acting as virtual wings, allowing it to be maneuvered once it is within range.”

“It _is_ a wee bumblebee!”

“Yes,” Spock said drily. “But I need to deploy it on the planet, inside a subject’s dwelling, without personally beaming down to the surface.”

“Ach, aye, well… that’s simple, isn’t it?”

“Please enlighten me.”

“Well, I can think of about a dozen ways. Come here, Commander and we’ll discuss options.”

Spock had the distinct impression of being accosted by a used shuttlecraft salesman as he followed Scotty into his office to discuss the modification of photon torpedoes and other methods. 

In the end, they settled on simply beaming the device into the house where Caffrey lived in the middle of the night to avoid its being seen. Spock had modified it so that he could use radio signals from within the communications grid on-planet to control it and receive its transmissions, and sat in his quarters, ready to position it in the best possible place within the home. From his observations, he surmised that Caffrey lived in the apartment on the building’s third floor. From the blueprints he’d obtained – as a historical building, the mansion’s plans were available online – he already knew the layout pretty well. 

The Bumblebee (once Scotty had named the device, it had stuck) materialized inside a large closet at the back of the suite of rooms. With its infrared vision, Spock had the impression of quite a lot of men’s clothing neatly hanging within, and could just make out their labels. He manipulated the Bumblebee’s controls so that it flew through the door, down a long hallway and – nearly into the closed door to the main room. Not to be deterred, Spock maneuvered the device to the floor, where it used its tiny wheels to roll forward and under the door. 

As it turned out, the door’s being closed was fortuitous – because Caffrey was awake despite the lateness of the hour, painting.

Spock’s breath hitched in his throat. To be able to witness a master such as Caffrey at work was literally like experiencing history first hand. He sat for several minutes, his hand hovering over the control panel for the Bumblebee, and stared. 

Caffrey’s back was to him, but Spock could see the canvas clearly. The artist was dressed in nothing but a loose pair of khaki pants that barely clung to his slim hips, barefoot, with smears of paint decorating his forearms. He bent over the canvas with utter concentration, working fast. It was the speed at which he worked that made Spock marvel, watching as he created. The image was of a young woman leaning against a tree trunk, with pale skin and long, dark hair, her blue eyes vibrant and alive. It was not long before Spock recognized the piece. It was _Young Woman, in Shadow_ , a painting Spock was quite familiar with – it was one of the few non-Vulcan works that hung in the fine arts museum in ShiKahr prior to the destruction of Spock’s home planet. To see it again spoke to Spock’s soul, but also brought back the familiar pain of loss, of sorrow. He saw the same sorrow reflected in the young woman’s countenance, her blue eyes staring out of the canvas as if she could see the future, knew how horrible it would be, but had already accepted it. How odd that Spock would see that quality in the painting now; he did not remember seeing it there before.

Done with his work for the moment, the artist stood back from it and regarded it moodily. He reached for a glass of red wine that sat on the nearby table and took a long draft. He reached his right hand out, his fingertips barely touching the image he’d painted, ghosting over her lips. Spock recalled that there had been much speculation as to the reason for the fingerprints in the middle of this piece, and seeing it happen, now, it was all too clear. Caffrey had brought the young woman to life before him and longed to touch her, but knew he couldn’t. He shook his head then, Spock saw, and turned his back on the image, shoulders bowed momentarily.

When he looked up, Spock saw his face for the first time. Of course, he’d seen many photos of Neal Caffrey in the last few days, not to mention images of him from surveillance cameras around the city. But to see him this close, and in a high definition image, nearly took Spock’s breath, again. His face was, of course, handsome; young and unlined, with a smattering of day-old stubble adorning his jaw. But the life in his face, the expression in his eyes – both sorrow and happiness, combined with regret and resignation – Spock didn’t think any being, Vulcan or human, could be capable of containing such complexity of emotion in a single moment. It made Spock ache to speak to him, to understand what he was thinking, and to put his mind at ease. 

Caffrey pulled out a nearby chair and sat, the wine glass held cradled against his bare chest. Spock noticed he had patches of paint smeared on his left pectoral muscle and upper arm, as if he’d unconsciously wiped his right hand there. Caffrey seemed to be noticing the same thing, because he picked up a can of paint remover and spilled a small amount on a cloth and attempted to clean himself up. He sipped his wine again, glanced over at the painting, and stood. Whatever he was about to do next was interrupted by a knock on the door. Caffrey covered the canvas with a cloth and went to answer the door.

“Moz,” Caffrey said, his voice scratchy and tired. “Come on in.”

“Burning the midnight oil?” the small man said. Spock recognized him from the first night he’d started watching, right after the energy discharge that had brought his attention to this house and this man.

“Couldn’t sleep. Painting relaxes me.”

“You don’t look relaxed.” 

Caffrey shrugged. “It’s a process. What brings you by?”

“I, uh, I’m a little freaked out. Heshie’s gone.”

“Well, Moz, he’s always been a little hinky. Hinkier than you, even.”

The man called Moz gave Caffrey a look that Spock was very familiar with – the look of a human unaccustomed to hearing plain speech. “But not when we’ve had a deal in the works. If there’s anything that can focus the man, it’s the prospect of a big payday. The last time I spoke with him, he said he had a buyer all lined up for some of the stones.”

Spock’s attention heightened at the mention of these stones – Moz had to be referring to the trilithium, which, indeed, resembled certain precious gems on certain worlds. “Uncut, I hope,” Caffrey replied, “because I’m not going near them again.” At last, here was proof that Caffrey had them. “I think I’d like to keep my hands attached to my body, thank you very much.”

“Aw, come on, that was a fluke, Neal. An electrical discharge from the FSM – I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Fluke or not, it was enough to keep me away from them. And you too – they’re bad news Moz, I can feel it in my gut.”

“You sound like the Suit.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes Peter’s right. And, by the way, he’s still pestering me to ‘ask my contacts’ about a load of sapphires supposedly on the black market. I’m running out of excuses. If you want my advice, you get rid of them, and quickly.”

“Fine,” Moz said, looking put-upon. “I’ll talk to Heshie as soon as I find him. Are they still in the -” 

“They’re safe, Moz, and far away from here – I want nothing to do with them.” Moz turned to go. “Be careful, OK?” Caffrey said to him as he saw him to the door. His hand covered his stomach.

“Yeah, your gut, got it,” Moz said, pointing at Neal's stomach with a weak smile before leaving.

When he’d gone, Caffrey spent thirty minutes cleaning up and then getting ready for bed. It took him a long time to fall to sleep.

Caffrey spent the entire next day in his apartment – the injury to his knee on the FBI operation two evenings before apparently sidelining him for another day – and so mainly puttered around his living space, reading, eating surprisingly little at mealtimes, and seeing no one. Spock took the opportunity of this downtime to report to the bridge for the Alpha shift, keeping an eye on Caffrey on his PADD, which he then carried with him as he went about the rest of his day. 

He took his evening meal late, finding the Officers’ Mess to be virtually empty at this time, and sat watching Caffrey as he worked on yet another painting. This one, however, was a miniature, and so Spock could not see its subject matter from the angle the Bumblebee had on the room.

“My goodness, is he painting?” a familiar voice behind him caused Spock to startle slightly in his seat. He frowned – it was not his usual practice to be so engrossed in something that he would fail to hear the approach of a fellow crewmember.

“Nyota, good evening.” She took the seat immediately to Spock’s right and leaned forward over the table so that she could have a closer view of the PADD’s screen. 

“Can you tell what he’s working on?”

“It is difficult to tell from this vantage, and I dare not reposition the monitoring device in case it is discovered.”

“This is so exciting – like watching history unfold before your eyes, huh?” 

Spock regarded Caffrey once again, and again he seemed to be working at a very quick pace; what little could be seen of the painting was very brightly colored. When Spock spoke, his voice was very quiet, almost reverential. “I have now watched him paint on two occasions, closely observing his technique, and find myself still wondering at how he can create such perfection with such little apparent effort. It is fascinating.”

“There is beauty in the creative process, sure. But there is also beauty in the scientific. I still find it fascinating to watch you working at your experiments, testing hypotheses.”

“I do not believe it is the same.” 

She turned to watch Spock watching Caffrey and cocked her head to the side. “Maybe you just find _him_ fascinating.”

Spock’s eyes met hers. “Of course – I have long been an admirer of his art.”

“I wasn’t referring to his art.”

“So I surmised. Nevertheless, I will focus my comments on the man’s work in order to maintain the illusion we are not delving into matters both personal and irrelevant.” Spock felt the color rising in his cheeks, and fought very hard to maintain eye contact with her; he found having this conversation with his erstwhile lover to be discomfiting.

She inclined her head, apparently dropping the subject. “Does he always paint shirtless?”

“I am given to understand it is messy work.”

“Mind if I watch too?”

\----

“I’m telling you, Peter, my contacts have said nothing,” Caffrey said. Spock was fascinated by the way Caffrey communicated with Special Agent Peter Burke, who was apparently his superior at the FBI. He neither told the absolute truth, nor outright lied, walking a fine line between them both. Caffrey’s contacts had said nothing because Spock knew he hadn’t actually discussed these “black market sapphires” with them. Spock found himself admiring the technique and resolved to try it himself in his interpersonal relationships. 

Burke nodded, but still looked dubious. Spock suspected he knew Caffrey was being deliberately evasive and was making allowances. His face softened as they both rose – they had been having a cup of coffee at a local establishment – and he offered Caffrey a hand to help him rise, which was politely refused. “I’m good Peter.”

“You sure? The doc said you should stay off that knee if you could.” The concern and affection on his face were unmistakable, even to Spock, who sometimes misread human emotional cues.

“Will it get me another day off work?” Caffrey’s tone was playful.

“No.”

“Then I’m good. Really. And I appreciate the thoughtfulness, but look –“ The visual moved up and down – Spock had placed the Bumblebee inside Caffrey’s breast pocket, obscured slightly by the pocket square he wore – and Spock surmised he was hopping up and down. “Not even a twinge.”

Burke’s face still looked concerned, but he deferred to Caffrey’s assessment of his own health. 

The two men walked along the street towards the FBI offices, chatting about nothing consequential, laughing and joking. Spock admired the easiness they had with each other and wished he could enjoy such relaxed camaraderie with Jim at times, but knew he could not. His captain was undoubtedly his close friend now – they’d been in enough life or death situations that they trusted each other implicitly – but Spock didn’t think nearly three decades of Vulcan training and culture would allow for him to relax his logic or his personality enough to behave in this manner. 

Caffrey’s day went on without incident, and so Spock took the opportunity to get caught up on his other work – the Science departments aboard the Enterprise would not run themselves – all the while keeping an eye and ear trained on what the Bumblebee was transmitting.

In the late afternoon, Caffrey’s presence was requested by Burke in his office at the top of the stairs. Caffrey trotted up the stairs to find a grim-faced Burke holding a file folder in a shaking hand.

“Peter, what – what is it?” Caffrey’s voice betrayed unease at the other man’s seemingly stern demeanor.

“Reginald Hesher – do you know him?”

“Do we ever know _anyone_?” Caffrey began with a lighter tone, but stopped when the lines of strain around Burke’s eyes began to look deeper. “What’s happened?”

Burke handed the folder he’d been holding over to Caffrey, who opened it up and gasped audibly. Inside, were photos from a crime scene, one in which the victim had been brutally murdered. In the brief moments they were visible to the Bumblebee, Spock got the impression of the bloody wreck of a human male, his body torn and broken, clearly tortured to death. Spock drew away from the image in shock, as did Caffrey.

“Oh my God,” Caffrey breathed. “Wh-who could have done something –“ It was apparent to Spock that the sight had upset Caffrey deeply, and to Burke as well, because he rose and walked around his desk to lay a hand on Caffrey’s shoulder.

“Hey, it’s OK, Neal.”

“No, no it’s not. I have to – Moz – I need to find him.”

“Do Moz and Hesher know each other?”

“They may have been collaborating –“ The Bumblebee’s view was briefly obscured by Caffrey’s left arm as he raised his hand to his own face. “Jesus Christ, Peter,” he muttered. 

“Yeah. Now you know why I work White Collar,” the other man said quietly and took the file folder away from Neal. “Is this to do with the sapphires, Neal?”

They discussed the missing stones, and as usual, Caffrey evaded giving a direct answer, intending to protect his friends, the small, nervous man and the other, smaller, more nervous one, who was apparently now dead. 

As they talked, Spock pushed himself away from his monitor and depressed a button on another device. What he’d seen in that photo, while brutal and unspeakable, also held significance to him. The way the body had been damaged, the methods and tools that had been used, pointed to only one possibility as to who had done it – and it wasn’t the Vendorians. Spock thought he knew who the thieves’ buyers were, and it was not a positive development. “Spock to Captain Kirk, please come in.”

“Yes, Spock.”

“Sir, I believe I know the identity of the buyers the Vendorians have lined up for the trilithium.”

“Have you seen them, Mr. Spock?”

“No, but I have seen incontrovertible proof nevertheless. Captain, the Vendorians are selling the trilithium to the Cardassian Empire.”


	2. Chapter 2

Neal burst out into the sunshine on Federal Plaza and just stood there, taking deep breaths. The memory of what had been done to Heshie – of what was left of him – was enough to make him want to vomit, and he just needed the fresh air and time away from the office to think. He’d already called all eight of Moz’s numbers, including two that he knew were already burned just in case. Now he just needed to wait, and he thought it just might kill him. 

He paced a tight little circle in the plaza, gnawing a thumbnail and going over it all in his head. He came to the conclusion that he didn’t know enough, that the enormity of what he didn’t know was too scary to even contemplate, and when he saw Moz he was going to hug the little goblin, then strangle him, then hug him again. 

As he walked, he kept his eyes on the ground, so he practically collided with Peter before he even saw him. “Peter.”

Peter stilled Neal’s forward momentum with a hand on his upper arm that he left there, squeezing gently. “You OK? I’m worried.”

“There are some things you can’t un-see, Peter.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Heshie and I were far from friendly, but it doesn’t mean I don’t care about what happens to him. I mean, who could _do something like that_ to another human being?”

“Calm down, we’ll find them. Now, how long has this been going on? It’ll help to know.”

“I had nothing to do with it, really, Peter. It was all Moz and Hesh.”

“I believe you,” Peter said, his voice gentle. “But now there’s an actual crime, Neal, and people who are willing to do anything to get their hands on those stones. If you know anything, anything at all –“ 

“Let me talk to Moz, I’ll bring him around.”

“Neal, we can’t afford –“

“I’ll bring him around, Peter,” Neal said, his voice shorter than he meant it to be, but the stress of seeing what had been done to Heshie and the fear that the same thing had happened to Moz were overwhelming his ability to maintain a cool exterior. He left Peter behind, intending to head for home and hoping he’d find Moz soon.

\----

Neal's cell buzzed in his pocket as he entered June’s mansion. “Moz?”

“Heshie’s dead.” Moz’s voice was flat, with no affect, which meant he was terrified.

“I know, I saw the pictures.”

“Yeah, well I saw the body – who do you think called the cops?”

“Moz, where are you? We need to take this to Peter.” Having entered the house, Neal began to trot up the stairs toward his third floor apartment.

“You really think the Suit can help with this?”

“Who else do we know that can protect you? That can get to the bottom of this, Moz? This isn’t like hiding the treasure – these people are dangerous.”

“You’re right.”

“Where are you? The sooner we get you into protective custody –“ As he spoke, Neal pulled his keys out and unlocked his apartment door.

“The better?” Moz said sheepishly from where he was sitting at Neal's table. 

Neal sighed inwardly, relieved his friend was already there, and was agreeing to cooperate with the Feds. “Moz, I was really scared,” Neal admitted in a rare moment of frankness.

“Me too, mon frère. I think whoever killed Heshie might also be following me.” When Neal opened his mouth to protest, Moz held up his hands placatingly. “Don’t worry, I gave them the slip before I came here. Are the stones still safe?”

“That’s all you’re thinking of?” Neal snitted.

“If they’re going to help me get out of this alive, then, yes, I’m thinking about them.”

“Well don’t worry – they’re safe. Now let’s get you to the Bureau before anything else bad happens.”

xXxXxXx

Spock sat in his darkened quarters, watching Neal sleep. The conman/artist was sitting in an arm chair in the living room of an FBI safehouse, where his friend had been taken – after much wheedling on Caffrey’s part, and threats of physical violence on the part of a young woman whose surname was Berrigan (Spock liked her – her no-nonsense manner reminded him of Nyota). Unconsciously, Spock had adopted the same position in his own chair that Caffrey was in – legs extended, temple resting against a loosely-curled fist. Over the last days of his surveillance of Caffrey, Spock had adopted the man’s own schedule, sleeping and taking meals when he did, but not tonight. Aside from Caffrey and his friend, there were three FBI agents in the small house, as well as two in a car parked outside. Spock knew that all of them combined would be no match for even one Cardassian armed with a disruptor, and so he kept watch over them, irrationally perhaps, because even if he could beam down to their location, he would likely be too late.

The chime at his door sounded and he roused himself. “Who is it?” he called, sitting with his back ramrod straight in the chair.

“Spock, it’s Jim.”

“Computer, lights to 70 percent,” he ordered. Then, “Come in, Captain.”

“Any developments, Mr. Spock?”

“No, sir. The subject has yet to make anything but a passing mention of the trilithium. They continue under the impression that the material is in actuality precious gemstones, though I believe Caffrey suspects otherwise.”

“We can’t let that material get into the hands of the Cardassians, Spock, it would be devastating to the history of the period, and would undoubtedly impact our own timeline.”

“Agreed, Captain. Any weapon they might use the trilithium for would surely tip the balance of power, leaving the Cardassians as a nearly unchecked force in their sector. As an aggressive race, there’s no predicting what they might do in neighboring sectors. Retrieving the trilithium must be our first priority.”

“What is going on down there?” Jim asked, changing his angle so he could watch the scene Spock had been watching. 

“It is night, they are sleeping.”

“Is that Caffrey?”

“It is.”

“Huh, you expect an icon to be, I dunno, more imposing-looking.”

Spock frowned. “I do not understand why there ought to be a correlation between a person’s augustness and their appearance. He is a man like any other.”

“You like him,” Kirk pointed out, a slight smile making his lips quirk to the side.

“I have long been an admirer of his work, even if I had not taken the time to learn more of his history until recent events made it necessary.”

“No, Spock, you _like him_. You find him appealing, I can tell.”

Spock blinked at his friend and furrowed his brows. “I – feel I have grown to know him better during the course of my surveillance, yes. While it is necessarily one-sided and even intrusive, I find I esteem him greatly. I have had two occasions to watch him work, and it has been elucidating.”

“And the fact he paints practically naked has done nothing to pique your interest further?” Kirk was grinning openly now. Spock felt the color rise in his cheeks and silently cursed Nyota, who had clearly reported some of their conversation to the captain. 

“It does not, Captain,” Spock replied, perhaps too forcefully. 

“Spock, it’s OK to admit you’ve got the hots for him. Having a crush is a normal part of the human experience.”

“Indeed, that may be, but it is not the case here,” Spock insisted, feeling the heat in his cheeks increase and spread to his ears. 

Jim winked. “Keep me apprised of all developments, Mr. Spock. We may need to beam down to the planet at a moment’s notice.”

“Aye, sir.”

Spock saw the captain to the door and then returned to his observation of the sleeping man on the screen. Jim’s words reverberated in his mind and he found he could not quiet his own thoughts. He told himself the captain was wrong – he certainly felt concern for Caffrey’s safety, but it was only because he was their only link to the trilithium. He told himself that any harm that might come to Caffrey or his friends would irrevocably change their timeline, and he of all beings understood too well what one small change in the course of events meant to the universe. Naturally he wanted to prevent that from happening, as well as any danger coming to a man whose art had brought enjoyment to so many generations. 

To feel anything other than esteem and respect for Caffrey was irrelevant, illogical and irrational, and his was a highly ordered, logical and rational mind.

So why, then, was he clearly falling for Neal Caffrey? The sleeping man on-screen offered no answer.

xXxXxXx

“Absolutely not!” Neal said more forcefully than he’d meant to, and then looked around the room sheepishly.

“Neal,” Peter began.

“Don’t _Neal_ me, Peter, what you’re asking him to do amounts to suicide.”

“I’d be the first to agree,” Moz said, resting a hand on Neal's forearm, “but it was my idea.”

“What? Moz, are you crazy?” Neal thought that yes, Moz had to be crazy to think exposing himself to the very men who’d murdered Heshie would solve their problem. But after two days’ investigation, the team had been unsuccessful in flushing the perpetrators out, and Moz had been going stir-crazy inside the tiny house in Queens where the FBI had been protecting him. Some probie on the night shift had mused about WITSEC for Moz, and the very idea had given the man hives. Actual hives – Neal had seen them. Now, apparently, he’d gone to Peter to propose this latest scheme.

“Not crazy, Neal, just fed up with Feds. I want my life back, and if offering a deal to these people will help, then I’m there.”

“And how do you propose to do it?”

“Let them find me.”

Neal almost ruptured something protesting, but in the end, Moz was adamant, Peter confident he could keep him safe, and Neal really had no choice in the matter. 

The plan was to have Moz hit all his usual haunts until he was certain he’d picked up a tail, then turn around and approach them, offering a deal for the stones and setting up a meeting to make the exchange. Peter and Diana were with him as muscle, with Jones and a few of the Organized Crime bruisers around just in case things got ugly. 

Neal spent a tense couple of hours in the van with a surveillance tech he didn’t know, nervously folding a veritable bouquet of origami flowers. He nearly dropped the one he was working on when Moz’s voice came in over the wire. 

_“All right, hold it right there,”_ Moz was saying, and his voice sounded improbably strong to Neal's ears. He wondered at the head of steam his friend had to have worked up to be this pissed off, but it was working. _”Don’t you idiots think you’ve been following me around enough lately? What do you want?”_

 _“You know what we want,”_ a male voice said and really, Neal expected the voice of evil to sound less like a folksier version of Wilford Brimley than it apparently did. _”Your associate, the smaller one, stole from us. We will need our materials returned.”_

Neal heard a rustling on the wire, then Peter spoke, his voice deep and menacing, _”That’s close enough.”_ Neal imagined he’d be pretty intimidating and so tried to relax a bit, with little success. 

_”I may be able to recover what you’ve lost, but I have a price. Bring me $250,000 dollars for the inconvenience you’ve caused me, and we’ll call it even.”_

The Brimley sound-alike agreed without a pause, which made the hairs on Neal's neck stand up – why didn’t they try to negotiate? In the end, they agreed on a time and a place for the exchange the following evening, one that Peter’s crew had already vetted and declared controllable from an operational standpoint. Neal would act as front man.

The stage was set, the plan set in motion, and the damned stones would be out of his life for good. So why did Neal feel so uneasy about it?

xXxXxXx

The following evening, the Away Team that Spock had hand-picked for this operation – two particularly burly security agents in case the Cardassians showed up, Nyota and Jim (both of whom had insisted on coming, much to Spock’s consternation, just to see Neal Caffrey in person) – had assembled in a conference room just outside the main transporter, waiting for Spock. The site of the meeting was a tiny martini bar that was located in the corner of the lobby of a very high-end boutique hotel in the meat-packing district. It was dark, discreet, and wholly unsuitable for their purposes – if a firefight broke out, there would be too many people nearby who could be injured or, worse, witness something they ought not to. It was apparently just fine for the FBI’s needs – easily defensible and surveilled, and they had also arranged with the place’s management to populate the entire place with agents.

Spock, in his thorough and efficient way, had prepared a report detailing the likeliest procedures the FBI agents would employ to cover the place and protect their human assets, as well as photos and bios of the principle people involved (though any information on Mr. Moz was impossible to discover). He’d also prepared a primer on 2012 dress, slang and current events. They had had their briefing earlier in the day and were to meet just prior to beaming down, but Spock was now late – he had had difficulty choosing the appropriate tie to go with the suit he’d had the ship’s quartermaster fabricate for him, and then the mechanics of tying a double Windsor knot had proven more complicated than he’d anticipated. All eyes turned to him as he entered the room, and at least two people whistled. Spock frowned – he knew one of them had been Nyota, since he was looking right at her as she did it, but wasn’t sure who the other one had been, and suspected it might be the Captain.

“Is something amiss?” Spock asked, looking down at himself. He had chosen a dark grey suit with dove grey pinstripes, complimented by a crisp white shirt and a silver patterned tie with coordinating pocket square. He held a fedora in his hands that he would have to wear to camouflage his ears, and he hoped that the phaser and tricorder he’d brought with him would not ruin the lines of the suit. If there was anything he’d learned observing Neal Caffrey for the last several days, it was the importance of a sleek silhouette.

“Nothing,” Nyota said, clearly suppressing a smile. “You look very dashing.”

“Thank you. As do you.” She was wearing a simple shift in a clinging, dark red material, shoes whose heels made her more or less the same height as Spock, and had tied her hair into a simple knot at the back of her head that set off her long and graceful neck. “Er, I mean you look very fetching.” Their relationship had instilled in Spock the importance of complimenting a woman on her appearance.

“What about me? How did I do?” Jim asked, coming up to them with a smile. He was wearing tight jeans and a pale grey t-shirt, plus a black leather jacket and his uniform boots – basically the exact same clothes he’d have worn had they been on shore leave on any number of planets. 

“What exactly is 21st century about this ensemble?” Nyota asked him.

“What isn’t? The classics never go out of style.”

“Uh-huh,” she said dubiously, though Spock did notice that she lagged behind Jim so that she had a full view of his buttocks as they headed for the transporter room.

xXxXxXx

Neal sat at the corner of the bar pretending to drink a martini, which was, in fact, chilled water with a twist in a fancy glass. He had insisted on acting as front man in this sting, with Moz in the back office, present in case he was needed, but staying out of harm’s way for the most part. Peter was back there with him, running the op, and Jones was acting as bartender.

Neal regarded the patrons and staff around him dispassionately. He assumed the ones he didn’t recognize were FBI agents from other divisions, or else some other kind of LEOs, there to provide the needed muscle. A prickling at the back of his neck alerted him to the fact that one of them was watching him. He sipped at his water and turned his head to find a young man about his height watching him intently. He was handsome, Neal thought, with pale skin and large, dark eyes the color of rich chocolate. His suit was tailored impeccably, flattering his broad shoulders and slim torso. Neal noted with a slight frown that he wore a fedora – indoors. The man noticed Neal's frown and raised an eyebrow. Neal smiled and cocked his head. The man understood the gesture for what it was and approached.

“You know, a gentleman removes his hat indoors.” Neal delivered the rebuke with his most charming smile. The young man cocked his head to the side, brown eyes intent on Neal’s. 

“I am not a gentleman.”

Neal laughed. “Oh no? That’s too bad, otherwise I’d buy you a drink.”

“Alcohol does not affect me.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?”

“It is neither.”

“That’s also too bad.” 

The opening and closing of the door to the street alerted Neal to the fact that his marks had just arrived; he recognized them from the surveillance photos Jones had gathered earlier. Jones, for his part, nodded subtly in their direction, and Neal took that as confirmation. 

Neal turned back to the man he’d been chatting up. “Listen, don’t go away, all right? I’d like to continue to flirt unsuccessfully with you later, but for now, I’ve got a job to do, so –“ he gestured vaguely over his right shoulder and smiled again. 

Neal hopped off the stool he’d been occupying, hefted the messenger bag he’d been keeping on the floor onto his shoulder and began to move to the far side of the bar to where the suspects had taken a small table in a dark corner. The young man began to follow him, so he turned and narrowed his eyes at him. “Look, guy, I don’t know what protocol you’re following, but you’ve got to let me do my job first and then you get to arrest the bad guys, OK? I don’t want you or anyone to get hurt.”

“That is precisely the reason I need to stay nearby.” His eyes, Neal noticed, were now on the bag Neal carried.

“Because you want to get hurt?” 

“So that you do not.” 

“That’s a – wow – kind offer, but I don’t think you understand what you’re getting into here.” 

“Ironically, that statement is more applicable to you than to me.” 

Neal, intrigued, looked at the man closely again. “I like you – don’t make me ask my buddy Peter Burke to have you busted down to mailroom clerk, OK?” 

“I do not understand.”

“I’ll explain later, then.” Neal put his hands on the man’s upper arms and squeezed lightly, taking note of the hard biceps underneath. “Stay here.” He turned to cross the bar again, striding up to his marks with a confidence he didn’t feel. “Gentlemen, I’ve been sent by a mutual acquaintance to close a business transaction. Shall we get down to it?”

“I believe we shall,” the younger one, whose folksy Brimley-esque drawl had so interested Neal said as he and his partner each pulled a handgun out from somewhere.

“Hey, now, there’s no need for any rough stuff,” Neal said, raising his hands. On closer inspection, the “handgun” was a small, rounded, sleek silver thing that was molded to the man’s right hand, the front of it glowing a bright blue. The two men stood and one of them reached for the messenger bag, which Neal gladly gave over, and then all hell broke loose. 

“Gun!” someone shouted, and nearly everyone drew on the perps, who calmly kept their weapons trained on Neal without flinching. Neal tried to back away, but found his way blocked by the same young man who he’d just been talking to; in his left hand, he held a weapon similar to Brimley’s, though this one was a bit larger.

“In the name of the United Federation of Planets, I order you to disarm yourselves,” he said quietly. Neal noticed that two other men – one a dark guy in a red golf shirt and khakis, the other a blonde in a leather jacket and jeans, were now flanking him, and that they were similarly armed.

Brimley’s eyes narrowed. “A Vulcan. I see we did not evade the Enterprise for long, K’t’nga!”

His associate appeared to be livid with rage as well. “Do not speak to me of this - _you_ made the calculations, Grwl, you son of a mountain cur.”

“Hey guys, let’s not make it personal, huh?” said the blonde lightly, brandishing his silver weapon-thing. “The jig is up, now come peacefully. Or not, but you should just give it up, because you’re surrounded.”

“Never, human!” one of them said – Neal wasn’t sure because he was too preoccupied with hitting the deck as one of them started firing, and damn him if glowing balls of light weren’t coming out of these weapons instead of bullets. The guy in the red golf shirt went down screaming when he was hit, and the two perps took advantage of the turmoil to run for the exit, one of them with the bag over his shoulder. 

Seeing them rabbit made Neal see red suddenly – there was no way they were going to be getting away after what they’d done to Heshie. Launching himself to his feet, he chased them out of the bar. They ran headlong down the block, turning up 13th and making for the river. He heard footsteps behind him, but didn’t turn to look – he hoped it was Jones or Peter, coming to back him up, because he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d do when he caught these guys.

They led him across the West Side Highway – where the hell was the traffic? – and down past a pier to the greenway. It was nearly dark now, with less foot and bicycle traffic, and Neal didn’t want to lose them in the straightaway. He caught a glimpse of them heading for a row of large planters and they suddenly stopped. As Neal got closer, he saw why.

The two men had been joined by two others, who were very tall – the shorter one was six-foot-six at least – with broad shoulders and thick necks, their skin a dark, almost grey color, with strange ridges and bumps on their faces and necks. They turned toward Neal as he slid to a stop in front of them, and pulled out a pair of their own weapons. These looked like something out of a science fiction movie, large and imposing chunks of metal that they needed to hold in both hands. “Shit,” Neal muttered, panting, wondering what to do next. 

“You will freeze and surrender your weapons,” said a calm voice to Neal's left, and he turned, eyes boggling, to see that the young man from the bar had been the one who followed him. He’d lost his hat somewhere along the way, and Neal noticed that his ears, as well as both his eyebrows, were pointed, giving him a foreign, almost alien air. Well, that explained the hat indoors, at any rate. The young man moved protectively in front of Neal, his weapon aimed at the four men in front of them.

“A Vulcan?” one of the very imposing men said, a sneer in his voice. “What have you brought to us, Grwl?”

“They followed us from the future, do not blame me!”

“We’ll discuss blame later, when we also discuss the reduction in payment you will receive due to your incompetence. You have the trilithium?” He didn’t wait to be given the bag, just snatched it away from the cowering Grwl and opening it up. Inside, of course, was nothing but old ceramic flooring tiles – June was having her kitchen remodeled – that Neal had stuffed inside earlier in the afternoon, expecting just such a double cross. 

“What treachery is this?” the imposing man roared, dumping the material on the ground. He aimed his weapon at the hapless Grwl, who fell back.

“It appears you will have to leave empty-handed, Cardassian,” the man in front of Neal said. “I arrest you all in the name of the Federation.”

“I recognize no such organization, nor your jurisdiction, Vulcan,” the man said through clenched teeth. He aimed his weapon at him, and Neal heard a high-pitched whine, as if it was charging up.

Neal, his mind boggling, seized on the one thing he _could_ understand – the fact that the person who was currently protecting him was in danger. Moving fast, he pulled on the Vulcan’s right arm, to get him out of the way as the Cardassian opened fire. Unfortunately, the alien fired again as Neal tried to back away, and he was hit in the belly by the flaming ball of light – this one red – that emanated from the tall man’s weapon. The shot sent Neal flying backwards nearly twenty feet, where he skidded to a stop beside another large planter.

The pain was unlike anything he’d ever experienced in his life; when Neal looked down at himself, it seemed as if his belly had erupted outwards, torn flesh and organs alike. Nauseated at the sight, he let his head fall back to the ground, panting in shallow breaths, and hoping that his death would be quick.

Suddenly, a face was hovering above his, concerned brown eyes looking into his. 

“Ow,” Neal groaned as the young man from the bar, the one they’d called a Vulcan, pulled Neal against himself, cradling his head and shoulders in his lap. There was a commotion behind them – apparently others had shown up and a firefight was now in progress. Luckily, the planter shielded them.

“Please, do not move or you will do yourself further harm.” 

Neal looked down at himself again and nearly passed out. “You’re not from around here, are you?” The understatement of the century, Neal thought, given all he had just seen.

“I am from… France.”

“Really? What part?”

“You should not strain yourself over-much. Disruptor blasts cause much damage to soft tissues. I believe you are experiencing extreme blood loss.”

Neal's eyes crossed as he began to lose consciousness. “Tell my friend Peter Burke that it was fun while it lasted, will you?”

“That would be imprudent as there is no time to find he to whom you are referring.” 

Neal blinked, taken aback. “Well, I’m dying, and I figured… last words and all?” The Vulcan’s features lost their immobility and Neal could see concern and even sorrow in his eyes. His fingertips ghosted across Neal's brow. 

“Not today,” he said quietly, his voice low, gentle.

“What?”

“You do not die today, not if I can stop it.”

Neal laughed just a little and choked on the blood that bubbled in his throat. Before he passed out, though, he learned his savior’s name. 

“Spock to Enterprise. Two to beam directly to sickbay.”

It was weird how dying made Neal feel like his atoms were falling apart.

xXxXxXx

Spock rose as soon as they’d materialized, Neal's body cradled against him.

“Hell’s bells, what happened?” Dr. McCoy exclaimed, rushing over to Spock, his medical tricorder already out.

“We were waylaid by Cardassians. He was shot by a disruptor at close range.”

“Bring ‘im in here,” McCoy said, leading Spock directly to the surgical suite. Spock laid Neal gently onto a biobed and McCoy slammed a stasis field over him within seconds; Neal's vitals were immediately displayed on the readout screens above his head. McCoy scowled as he read, running his fingers over them as he took mental notes. “He’ll need emergency surgery. What possessed you to bring him here?”

“He was dying.”

“Well, let’s see if we can’t stop that, at least.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“You can thank me at your disciplinary hearing for violating the Prime Directive. Now get the hell outta here and let a man work.” McCoy ushered Spock into the waiting area in a surprisingly gentle way, despite his harried tone, where Spock stood, unsure what to do with himself for perhaps the first time in his life. 

“Spock!” Nyota exclaimed when she found him there several minutes later; she was supporting Ensign McCormack, the man in the red golf shirt who had taken fire from the Vendorians as they fled the bar. “You’re covered in blood!”

Spock looked down on himself; he was, in fact, soaked in Caffrey’s blood from his waist to his knees. “I had better change my clothing.” He went to leave as she handed the injured man off to a nurse, then turned back to her. “What happened after I left the bar?”

“I stayed with McCormack – the Captain and Morales weren’t that far behind you; they managed to capture one of the Cardassians –“ As if to illustrate, a gurney with an unconscious Cardassian strapped to it approached from the direction of the transporter room under heavy guard and they both were forced to make way. “If he makes it, maybe we’ll be able to find out why they’re here.”

“I doubt he will be forthcoming. Caffrey did not have the trilithium with him, despite his promise to ‘deal’ with the Vendorians. He was injured by the Cardassians when I challenged them. We are no closer to our goal of recovering the trilithium than we were before.”

“Is that whose blood you’ve got on you?”

Spock nodded, again taking in his bloodied appearance with distaste and dismay both. “He was injured attempting to pull me from harm’s way.”

“How is he?”

“Doctor McCoy is operating on him now. I do not know.” Spock looked away from her, the realization that Neal's injury was disturbing to him creating an emotional response he fought hard to control; he clenched his jaw.

“You should get cleaned up,” she said, taking his forearm with her hand and pulling him toward the exit. 

Spock did not move. “I find I am unwilling to go, I – want to be here and receive news of Caffrey’s condition as soon as it is known.”

Nyota’s smile was kind as she pulled his arm again. “The Captain will want a report, and you will need to be presentable to give it to him. The doctor will alert you as soon as the surgery is over. Come.”

Spock allowed her to lead him to his quarters.

\----

Spock found he was in need of a shower, and so took longer to make himself presentable to the Captain. He stood outside Kirk’s Ready Room and hit the door chime, requesting entrance.

“Come,” Kirk called brusquely and, when Spock had been standing at parade rest in front of his desk for more than a minute, he finally looked up from the PADD he was reading and said. “Please report, Commander.”

“After the Vendorians fled the bar, Caffrey gave chase, as did I. We pursued them for perhaps half a mile until we reached the river, where the Vendorians rendezvoused with a pair of Cardassians, who I assume are their buyers for the trilithium. They… did not wish to surrender to me.” Spock didn’t see the point in going into great detail as to what the Cardassians said.

“Go on.”

“The Cardassians then seized the bag that Caffrey had been carrying from the Vendorians, only to discover that it contained what appeared to be disused ceramic tiles.” 

“We found that. So, we still don’t have the trilithium?”

“No sir.” Spock flinched as Kirk made an angry noise and clenched his right hand into a fist.

“What happened next?”

“In their anger, the Cardassians began firing their disruptors. Caffrey pulled me out of the way but was shot himself. I returned fire while I could and believe I hit one of the Cardassians.”

“You did – he was dead when we arrived.”

Spock blinked, relieved that at least one dangerous alien had been taken out of the picture; with the other he saw headed to sickbay, that left just the Vendorians, who he asked Kirk about.

“The Vendorians escaped and Dr. M’Benga reports that the second Cardassian has died.”

“That is unfortunate. With the lack of a buyer, the Vendorians will want to leave the planet immediately, and it is unlikely they will do that without the trilithium, after all that has transpired thus far.”

“If the Vendorians get it and go back to our own time, they can peddle it to the Klingons, the Ferengi or worse. Spock, this is not the outcome I had been hoping to see.” 

“Nor I, Captain.”

“And there is an injured, worlds-famous painter dying in my sickbay, Mr. Spock.”

Spock could feeI the blood draining from his face. “As Mr. Caffrey was mortally wounded, I did the only logical thing I could think of and brought him to the Enterprise for treatment.”

“’The only logical thing’? Is that what that was?”

“Neal Caffrey did not die on this date,” Spock explained. 

“And a pair of Cardassians didn’t start shooting up Chelsea either, but that’s what we’ve got now. So much for keeping a low profile.”

“Quite.”

“And we’ve still come up empty-handed. Dammit, Spock!”

Spock flinched as Kirk rose from his desk and began to pace the room in an agitated manner. “I’m not mad at you, just so you know,” he said after several moments of silence. “I’m mad at this whole situation.”

“That is gratifying to hear.”

“What the hell do we do now?”

“If it means anything, I believe the trilithium is still in Caffrey’s possession, or he knows where it is being kept.”

“So, what, if we ask him nicely maybe he’d hand it all over now?”

Spock merely inclined his head.

“Except he’s in surgery and if he croaks, then where will we be?” 

Spock clenched his jaw but remained silent. Noticing, Kirk’s face softened. “I’m sorry, that was crass of me. You care about him, don’t you?”

“His continued well-being would please me, yes, Captain.”

“Spock, we _have_ to get that trilithium back. I’m holding you responsible for that.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“As soon as possible, you will find out what Caffrey knows, and you will find a way to recover that material, are we clear?”

“As Andorian crystal, sir.”

“This is your only assignment, Spock, and you will accomplish it with the same Vulcan efficiency I have learned to depend on. You are dismissed.”

\----

Spock was in the waiting area when Dr. McCoy emerged from the surgical suite ten hours later, exhaustion written all over his bowed shoulders and pained gait. Spock rose and the doctor came to him immediately, a scowl on his face to hide the exhaustion. “He’s stable for now, but his liver was shot all to hell. It’ll take a while to regenerate – days. He can’t be moved.”

“He is alive, then?” 

McCoy’s scowl softened at the hopeful tone in Spock’s voice. “Yes, and barring any complications, he’ll make a full recovery.”

“That is good news, Doctor, thank you.” Spock made to move past McCoy, who stopped him with a hand on his elbow. 

“Just where do you think you’re goin’?”

“The Captain has assigned me to question Mr. Caffrey on the location of the trilithium. I intend to do just that as soon as possible.”

“That won’t be possible for a couple of days yet, Spock. He’s in a coma for now.”

“I see. Thank you, Doctor.” Spock turned toward the door to leave, but found he was reluctant to do so.

“Do you want to see him anyway? Check up on ‘im?” McCoy asked, his voice kind.

“I – believe it would quiet my mind to assure myself of his well-being,” Spock admitted. 

Caffrey was alone in a private room, a sheet covering him from the waist down, the tissue regenerator situated over his midsection. He looked pale yet peaceful, not at all as alarmingly bloodied as he had been the last time Spock saw him. Spock stood at his shoulder, looking down on him, musing at how different he looked while so still, where before he had been so animated, always moving as if he could not contain the energy within himself. 

Something within Spock, something he had long fought to suppress, compelled him to reach his hand out. He longed to touch Caffrey’s shoulder, to feel its warmth, to know for himself that he was still alive. Being a touch-telepath, of course, Spock usually eschewed making skin-to-skin contact with anyone, not wishing to impinge on another’s privacy, even if all he usually picked up were surface thoughts and emotions. What made him suddenly drop this reticence, he could not say or explain; he only knew that the desire to touch Caffrey was almost undeniable.

His skin was smooth, the muscle beneath it hard and solid, well-defined. The impressions Spock received from Neal, even in his drug-enforced coma, were muddled and confused. There was fear and pain naturally, but also an almost in-born curiosity and openness that Spock had encountered among some humans, and that he found truly fascinating. He longed to know more, to understand Neal more, perhaps through a mind meld, but he would never do such a thing to a non-consenting mind, and the clearing of a throat behind him made him withdraw his hand quickly, as if burned.

“He’ll be out of it for a while, Spock,” Dr. McCoy said, entering and checking the read-outs on the biobed. “I can contact you as soon as he begins to regain consciousness if you like.”

“Yes, Doctor, that would be acceptable,” Spock said, his mouth suddenly dry. He turned to go, but the doctor blocked his egress from the room. McCoy reached out a hand and clasped Spock on the shoulder, an uncharacteristically tender expression on his face as he squeezed. The expression was gone as quickly as it had appeared, though, and he dismissed Spock from his sickbay, lest he get all of his “hobgoblin germs all over the damn place.”

\----

_Never mind, I'll find someone like you_  
I wish nothing but the best for you too  
Don't forget me, I beg. I remember you said,  
"Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead,  
Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead." 

Spock sat in his quarters, the lights lowered, listening to a selection of early 21st century popular music with his eyes closed, not so much meditating as thinking through the events of the last several days, and coming to the same conclusion: he’d have acted exactly the same no matter what other variables might have been brought to bear, Prime Directive or no. The consequences of what that meant he would deal with at a later time.

The chime at his door sounded and he lowered the volume. “Come,” he called to whoever it was.

It was Nyota. She opened her mouth to speak, but paused when she noticed the music playing softly in the background. “I thought you were off the hook on the 21st century pop culture immersion?” she asked.

“I am,” he replied. “But despite our mission being nearly at an end , I find I have developed quite an affinity for the music of the day. This artist, ‘Adele’ for example, is most intriguing. Until this moment, I had not thought it possible for humans to be capable of such depth of emotional expression, and yet her work moves me more than expected.”

“Does it?” Nyota asked, a look in her eyes Spock had become very familiar with during his time among humans, one he had learned to label “bemusement.”

“Nyota, as I listen to this music, I realize the true depth of feeling that is possible in the human female. I must, therefore, beg your forgiveness for the manner in which we ended our relationship. My behavior at the time might have been perceived as insensitive, and I do not wish –“

“Spock, while I appreciate your newfound understanding of the human female experience, we ended things for very good reasons.” 

“We did?”

She raised an eyebrow, but smiled. “I am, as we humans say, ‘over you.’”

Spock regarded her closely to be sure she was not prevaricating; she did not appear to be.

“Plus there was that whole business of you realizing you prefer men to women – definitely a deal breaker for the both of us, yes?” she went on.

“True.”

She crossed over to where he sat and, leaning over, kissed him on the forehead. “My heart will always have a spot in it for you, my dear friend,” she said softly, and he closed his eyes. “Which is what brings me here, actually.” Spock cocked his head to the side to encourage her to continue. “How are you doing after everything that happened down on the planet, Spock? Did the Captain chew you out too badly?”

“Captain Kirk was appropriately stern in his dealings with me, perhaps even less than I myself would have been with a subordinate who had violated regulations in such a manner.”

“What did he say?”

“He urged me to renew my efforts to retrieve the trilithium by convincing Mr. Caffrey of the importance of the matter. The Captain put much emphasis on success – he said it is my only duty.”

“How is he? Caffrey?”

“In need of a new liver. Dr. McCoy assures me he will recover fully, however.”

“But how is he going to handle being on a Starship from 200 years in the future?”

“That remains to be seen.”


	3. Chapter 3

Neal knew before waking that he was not at home. He remembered being injured, of course – he even remembered thinking he was dying – so not waking at home was to be expected. 

Waking up on a space ship, however, was not.

He found himself lying on his back on a flat surface. He knew without looking, somehow, that he was naked. There was an odd machine, silver and sleek, in place over his midsection. While he could move his arms and head, as well as his feet and toes, the middle part of his body was completely immobilized. He could neither move nor feel his hips, his stomach, or his legs above the knee.

That’s what made him panic.

The resulting spike in his heart rate and blood pressure set off some alarms, and he was soon joined by a pretty blonde in a blue uniform, waving what looked like a USB drive at him, and reading something on a handheld device about the size of an iPhone.

“What is this? Where am I?” Neal asked, trying to swallow down the panic and calm himself, but failing utterly.

“You’re safe, Mr. Caffrey, and healing,” the woman informed him with the gentle, bland, slightly condescending tone of nurses everywhere. It did nothing to calm Neal in the least.

“Who are you? How do you know my name? Where’s Peter?” Neal tried to rise, found his movement hampered by the machine holding him down and became further agitated. “Please, let me go,” he begged. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

“Mr. Caffrey, please calm down!” the woman said, her voice getting sterner. She was soon joined by a similarly-clad man who spoke at him with what sounded like a Southern accent, and the incongruity of it all sent Neal over the edge into a full-fledged panic attack. 

Suddenly, the man pressed what looked like a slim otoscope against his neck; there was a prick on his skin that made him flinch, and he felt the heaviness that could only come from heavy sedation begin to pull at his consciousness. Then he saw the face of the handsome young man with the pointed ears from the bar swim into view and he relaxed.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said before passing out.

\----

When Neal woke again, the strange machine was gone, though he was still naked under a sheet. It didn’t really bother him, though, because he was warm enough, and the pain he thought he ought to be in was virtually non-existent. He tried to sit up, but a generalized yet severe weakness made it nearly impossible.

“You should not attempt to rise,” a calm voice informed him. He turned his head to find Mr. Pointy Ears seated in a chair against the far wall, what looked like a completely transparent iPad in one hand. “I am told organ regeneration is quite taxing.”

“Ummmm...” 

“I am Spock. It is an honor to properly make your acquaintance.” Spock rose and came closer to the bed Neal was lying on.

“You were in the bar. And you followed me to the river. You brought me here?”

“You were in urgent need of medical treatment.”

“And where is here, exactly?”

Spock only paused for a second before answering. “The USS Enterprise.”

“The aircraft carrier?”

“Not quite, though I believe the starship was named for it.”

“Starship?”

“The Enterprise is a space-faring vessel, yes.”

“I, um, think I need to lie down.”

“You are already in a supine position.”

“So I am. Excellent point.” There followed an awkward silence while Neal processed this information and Spock looked away, thinking of what, Neal had no idea. A minute later, they both began to speak at once, “Boy, Moz is never gonna shut up about this,” Neal said, while Spock added, “I am told you will be well in a few days’ time.”

“That’s good,” Neal answered while Spock responded with a raised eyebrow. “You are not from France,” he added.

“I am not. I apologize for the subterfuge, but the truth _has_ seemed to have caused you some measure of anxiety.”

“A fair point. Well, thank you for saving my life, Mr…. is Spock your first or last name?”

“It is my name.”

“Ah. Well. Mr. Spock. Where _are_ you from, Mr. Spock?”

“It is of no consequence.”

Neal, long a student of facial expressions, was dismayed to see that his question had apparently upset Spock, whose eyes became slightly brighter as his mouth quirked downward in a frown. “I’ve upset you – I’m sorry.”

“Do not be, for you had no way of knowing. My – home – was recently destroyed.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Spock. I know a bit about loss myself.” Troubled by memories too recent and upsetting, Neal reached out and grasped Spock’s wrist in commiseration. The other man’s skin was nearly hot to the touch, and though it only served to point up his alien-ness to Neal, he knew the look of a person in need of contact. 

Spock, however, pulled his hand from Neal's even as their eyes met. “I’m sorry, I – it is inappropriate for us to touch.”

“Why?”

“I am a touch telepath.”

“You can read my mind?” Neal was simultaneously intrigued and appalled. 

“Not precisely, but I receive impressions of your emotions and I am told it is – disconcerting for some.”

“I don’t think I mind,” Neal said with a slight smile. Not only had this man saved his life, Neal found his formality and halting delivery both endearing and refreshing. “Unless you do.”

“I – to have such concerns is illogical.”

“OK then.” Neal smiled broadly, but kept his hands to himself just the same. “So why are you here, Mr. Spock? On Earth? I don’t expect these types of visits happen every week.”

Spock seemed to choose his words carefully, which did not escape Neal's notice. “We have been searching for something that was stolen from our time, something dangerous.”

“So you’re from the future?”

Spock’s eyes flicked to the rigth – Neal had gotten him to admit to something he didn’t want to. “Yes.”

“How far in the future?”

“I – should perhaps refrain from supplying that information.”

“But far enough that humans have become space-faring?” Neal watched Spock squirm uncomfortably – his deductions were clearly not expected; still, Spock was loath to give up much more. “My doctor is clearly an American,” Neal explained, “from the south – South Carolina or Georgia if I’m not mistaken. Hard to believe such an accent could be duplicated anywhere else in the universe.”

“Your powers of observation are uncanny, Mr. Caffrey.”

“And you know my name, Mr. Spock. How long have you been watching me?”

“I –“ 

“You _have_ been watching me, yes? At the bar you said you didn’t want me to be hurt. I can only assume that is because you knew about the meet, and you knew those guys wouldn’t deal and would be a threat. How else would you know, unless you’d already had me under surveillance?”

“A sound conclusion.”

“I wish I could work out how, though. Did you bug the FBI offices? Hughes will be very upset.”

“We have advanced technologies.”

“I’ve seen. Those weapons – “ Neal shuddered at the memory of being shot, and changed the subject. “The sapphires – they’re not really precious stones, are they? What could they be then – something much more valuable, something worth killing for. A power source, maybe? A weapon?”

Spock pressed his lips together, either unwilling to answer or else at a loss for words, which Neal was enjoying on a certain level, but this battle of wits was tiring.

“You know, the cat’s already out of the bag – you can tell me.”

“I fail to see the relevance of a feline in a soft-sided receptacle…”

Neal smiled. “Nice attempt at a misdirect, but I think you can do better than that. Are you going to tell me what the stones are for? Are they dangerous? Should I be concerned for my friends?”

Spock raised a pointed eyebrow and stared at Neal with what appeared to be consternation. “You are very perceptive.”

“It’s what I do. And you still haven’t answered me. Should I be concerned that the men who are after those stones will harm my friends?” 

Spock’s eyebrows knit together and he seemed to be mulling something over; Neal kept his mouth shut as he did, but did not drop his eyes from Spock’s 

“You asked if you should be concerned for your friends,” Spock began. “The truth is that you should be concerned for your entire planet. The stones are a raw material used in advanced weaponry capable of destroying entire star systems. We must recover them before they get into the wrong hands.”

“So that you can make the weapons?”

“So that we may prevent them being made at all.”

Neal let out the breath he’d been holding. “That’s a relief.”

“What is?”

“At least you’re the good guys. I’d hate to think I couldn’t trust you.”

“How do you know I am not lying?”

“I make a living out of reading people – I don’t think you could lie if your life depended on it, Mr. Spock.”

“I do not know whether to be flattered or insulted by that remark.”

“If it helps, it was meant as a compliment.”

“Thank you. Now, will you tell me where the stones are, so that I may retrieve them? The matter, as you know, is urgent.”

“They’re in an evidence vault inside the FBI building. They’re as secured as they can be.”

“It would be my preference to retrieve them as soon as possible.”

“Well, I don’t think the FBI will give them up all that easily. You’ll need my help if you’re ever going to get anywhere.” Again Neal tried to rise, managing to get up on his elbows.

“The doctor said you must rest, Mr. Caffrey,” Spock said, pressing him gently back onto the bed with two hands on Neal's shoulders; for a moment, their faces were mere inches apart, close enough that Neal could feel the other man’s breath on his cheek. 

Neal allowed himself to be eased back down, but he gazed into Spock’s large brown eyes unflinchingly. “You can call me Neal,” he said, his voice low, slightly seductive, reflecting the attraction he felt to this strange man. 

Picking up on it through their touch, or so Neal guessed, Spock pulled away, though he did not look away. If Neal wasn’t mistaken, there was a greenish cast to the man’s cheeks all of a sudden. “You must rest. Neal. Dr. McCoy will be very cross if you injured yourself.”

“Don’t want that. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sleepy.” In fact, Neal could barely keep his eyelids open now. 

“Very well. We will speak later, when you are more rested.”

\----

“Later” turned out to be 24 hours later, as Neal's doctor, McCoy, deemed the small amount of energy he’d expended in talking with Spock to be too much and refused to let anyone in to see him. 

The next morning, Spock returned as Neal sat in bed sipping at a mug of weak tea and nibbling dry toast for breakfast. “Good morning, Neal,” he greeted. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Happy to see a friendly face at last. I’m going out of my wits with boredom, Spock. How are you?”

“I am operating at peak efficiency.”

“You talk like you’re a robot or something,” Neal observed. “Tell me how you _are_ ”

Spock raised an eyebrow thoughtfully. “I have rested sufficiently, caught up on my duties, and eaten a nutritious breakfast. I am –“

“…operating at peak efficiency,” Neal interrupted with a smile. “I suppose I can’t argue with that.”

Spock took a seat. “It is gratifying to see you in an upright position, Neal. Your health is much improved, I think?”

“I think so, but your Dr. McCoy would make it sound as if I was still at death’s door.”

“He is a diligent healthcare professional,” Spock said, but Neal noticed that his mouth quirked up on one side. “Though I think our captain would prefer the term ‘smothering.’”

“I might agree with your captain. Tell me, Spock, how much longer will I have to be here? I feel like I’ve been away for too long. I think my friends will be worried for me.”

“I am told a few more days – I will be sure to ask the doctor to explain everything before I go.”

“It would be better if there was something to do, to pass the time.”

“Do you play chess? I have a board in my quarters.”

Neal tried not to give too much away with his smile. “Do I?”

Spock finally gave up when Neal had beaten him three games to nil. “I do not understand…” he began, laying his king down as he conceded. 

“What, your civilization is decades more advanced than mine, so naturally you think you have the advantage?” 

“Nothing like that,” he replied, though Neal suspected he was somewhat correct if the gently-darkening patches of color on Spock’s cheeks were any indication. “I have made a study of chess all my life – it was a passion I shared with my mother. I used all the stratagems I have learned, and still you beat me.”

“Maybe that’s your problem – you’re using the stratagems you learned. You’re not using any of your own; you’re not using your imagination, your creativity. I think you are too scientific.”

“An apt summation,” Spock confessed. “Many of my colleagues here would agree with you, though I think they misunderstand me.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve offended you.”

Spock reached out a hand and brushed his fingertips over the back of Neal's hand briefly, then pulled away self-consciously. “You have not. I am merely sharing my sense of alienation among my peers with you, because in you, I believe I see someone who will understand.”

“I am flattered, Spock. So, you feel like you don’t fit in here?”

“For many reasons. I have made few friends, though it is not for a lack of will. I am but half-Vulcan, you see, and though I was brought up in the precepts of logic, I never truly fit in on my home planet. As a half-human, I was shunned and so whatever ease or camaraderie my peers might have felt for each other was not directed at me. Here, among a crew comprised primarily of humans, the natural reticence that is my Vulcan identity puts people off. I cannot engage with humans at the level they require and remain true to my own self, my identity.”

Neal leaned forward, moved by Spock’s words and the frank way he shared them. He suspected the man rarely shared these inner thoughts with others. “I can’t imagine the loneliness you must feel – child of two worlds, comfortable on neither of them.” Neal impulsively rested his hand on Spock’s forearm, squeezing gently, trying to provide comfort.

“I am slowly making strides here – the Captain is someone I would consider a friend and I have had an intimate relationship with a human woman. But I often wonder if it is enough – so many others seem to have scores of who they would call ‘friends’ yet I find it difficult to acquire more than a few.”

Spock met his eyes with a surprisingly steady gaze, and Neal was struck suddenly by the expressiveness of his brown eyes, and found himself wanting to get to know him better. “’I don't need a certain number of friends, just a number of friends I can be certain of.’ A very smart lady said that, Spock. Don’t measure yourself by others’ yardsticks.”

“That sounds like very sound advice – I will endeavor to apply it.” Spock took a deep breath. “You are easy to talk to, Neal,” he confessed.

Neal couldn’t explain the sadness he felt as he answered, “Some would say that’s part of my job.”

“I do not follow.”

“I am, by profession, what is known in my time as a confidence man.”

“We have those in the 23rd century as well.”

“Glad to know some things don’t change. Anyway, when you’ve made your living as I’ve done, people tend to see only that. They view my every action as some sort of scam - motivated by greed or the desire to gain an advantage over them. I wish that was my motive as often as I’m accused of it, because it would at least make it easier to bear.” 

“To not have the trust of your fellows is a heavy burden.”

Neal blinked back the sting of tears he refused to let develop. “I must bear it with a smile,” he said, pasting one on to demonstrate. He swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat.

“It occurs to me that such an existence is a lonely one as well. Are you never afforded the opportunity to ‘just be yourself’? I have learned that this is important to humans.”

“It is. And I don’t. Even my friends sometimes seem to see me as an asset a lot of the time – a means to an end. A tool in the belt. I’ve gotten used to it.”

“But not to the emotional turmoil it brings.”

“Yeah, well… yeah.” They sat silently for several seconds, until Neal couldn’t bear it much longer. “We’re a couple of mopey guys, aren’t we? What do you do for fun around here?”

“I meditate.”

“Doesn’t sound like fun.”

“It is not what would be termed fun by most beings, but it affords me a measure of calm. Lately I have been making a study of 21st century popular culture entertainments.”

“Ah ha!” Neal said, brightening. “When in Rome, eh?”

“Indeed. Perhaps, given your origins and insider’s knowledge of the period, you can explain a few things that have confounded me.”

“It would be my pleasure, Spock.”

Spock paused, as if gathering his thoughts. “What, exactly is a ‘Honey Boo Boo’?”

“Ah,” Neal said, sitting back with a thoughtful expression, “you’ve stumbled onto the one topic that defies explanation.”

\---- 

Neal could count on one hand, perhaps, the number of times he’d been rendered completely incapable of speech. And while most of them (Kate’s death, the revelation that his father was alive when he turned eighteen) had caused him grief, this time was different – this time the sheer beauty and magnitude of what he was seeing nearly stole his breath.

“I’m told the first time one sees one’s planet from space can have a profound impact on a person,” Spock was saying quietly at his shoulder. McCoy had deemed Neal well enough to be let out of the sickbay for a short period of time, and Spock had planned Neal's outing for the time when the ship’s observation deck would have a full view of Earth. He stood at a respectful distance behind the wheelchair Neal was confined to, though close enough at hand to render assistance if it was needed. “I myself find it an occasion for introspection.”

When Neal was finally able to tear his eyes away, he turned in his seat and gazed up at Spock with eyes that brimmed with tears. “Thank you,” he mouthed, his voice still failing, then turned back to the sight. 

“Spock, you have given me a gift,” he said, finally turning the chair toward the man after half an hour and wheeling it to sit across from him, their knees nearly touching. Spock sat quietly reading a report on his PADD. “Not only have you saved my life, you have shown me something that makes literally every problem in my life seem completely insignificant.”

A look of alarm briefly flashed over Spock’s features. “I – I am sorry –“ he stammered.

“Don’t be,” Neal hastened to assure him, a hand on his knee. “I misspoke – what I mean is that you’ve given me a perspective I was lacking, and it’s made me reflect, and that’s a good thing. I meant what I said – I wish I could repay you.”

“I… find that just having known you… is payment enough,” Spock answered, haltingly. 

Spock brushed his fingertips lightly against Neal's hand as he had before, then pulled his hand away. Neal quickly turned his wrist so that he caught Spock’s hand, pulling him forward. “I know you know what I’m feeling right now, Spock,” Neal said, his voice throaty.

“I – I don’t –“ Spock had his head cocked to the side, but his eyes were on Neal's mouth. 

“But I do.” Neal leaned in, close enough to taste Spock’s breath, and licked his own lips – 

They both pulled away from each other as a group of four young people burst through the door. Having just come to the end of their shift, they were excited to gaze at the planet below.

“Sorry, Commander,” one of them apologized; they’d all come to full attention once they spotted Spock and Neal sitting in front of the observation window. “Normally we have the place to ourselves at this hour.”

“There is no need to apologize. Mr. Caffrey and I were merely –“

“Admiring the view,” Neal finished for him, not knowing if Spock’s penchant for truth-telling would extend to something like this. “I can’t believe you all get to see space from this perspective – I don’t think I’d ever get anything done.”

Neal smiled at the four young people – they didn’t seem much older than their early 20’s. One of them, an African male, elbowed a fair young woman in the ribs. Neal saw her face turn beet red, and when she opened her mouth to speak, her voice was no doubt higher than it normally would be. “Mr. Caffrey, it’s an honor to meet you. At university, I wrote my thesis on your –“ 

Spock rose suddenly, straightening his tunic top and fixing the girl with what Neal could only classify as a glare. 

“… century,” she finished, clearly not saying what she’d meant to. If it was possible, her face got redder. “It’s a hobby of mine, actually. So, maybe, we could… discuss…” her voice trailed off under Spock’s scrutiny and Neal thought she looked ready to burst into tears.

Spock interrupted her. “Mr. Caffrey is still recuperating from serious injuries. I am sure that he –“

“…can make the time,” Neal interrupted Spock, looking at him curiously. 

“…if your own schedule permitted it, Ensign Sorenson,” Spock finished, raising an eyebrow in challenge at her.

Now all the color left her face and she swallowed. “Come to think of it, I’m not sure it does. Darn it. Well, I’d better be going, bye!” She fled the observation deck with her fellows in tow.

Neal glanced at Spock, wondering what that exchange had all been about, but Spock had such a neutral look on his face, he might have doubled as a mannequin at Barney’s. “So, fraternization with the junior staff is frowned upon?” Neal ventured.

“It would not be prudent to expose you to very many of the ship’s crew. Your presence here has caused a sensation, due to its… novelty and the situation we find ourselves in, having come into our own past. It would not be advisable for you to interact with the crew – they may let slip some detail about your future history that could prove disastrous for you to know.”

“I see – time paradoxes can be messy things.”

“You do not know the half of it,” Spock said with such conviction Neal wondered if he was speaking from personal experience. He let it drop, though he remained curious.

“I think I should be heading back to sickbay before that doctor finds me and scolds me to death,” Neal said. In truth, he was beginning to tire and wanted to lie down, and McCoy had put a one hour limit on Neal's excursion.

“Of course,” Spock said, moving behind Neal's wheelchair. “I have minor duties to attend to, though I can join you for dinner if you are in want of company.”

Neal smiled. “I would like that very much.” 

They arrived at sickbay soon enough, and Spock took Neal to his room, where he helped him into bed. Before he left, he took up the strange iPad-like object he’d been using and typed some things into it, his fingers flying fast. He finally handed it to Neal, who looked at it curiously. It seemed like a clear piece of Lucite to him, light but substantial in his hands. Spock sat beside him on the bed and pressed a fingertip over a small indentation in the bottom corner and the thing flared to life.

“It is a Personal Access Display Device, or PADD, similar to the tablet computers of your time.” He gave Neal a brief tutorial on how to use it. “I thought it would help to pass the remaining time you are here – I know that humans are given to impatience when faced with protracted periods of involuntary inactivity. You can use it to read, to watch vids, to research contemporary or historical topics, or even to draw.” He pulled a stylus from his pocket and handed it to Neal.

Neal marveled at the device, running his fingers over its interface, wondering where to start first.

“I must warn you that I have disabled its access to any entry related to future Earth history, as it would be a severe violation of our laws for you to learn anything that might impact your fate, or the fates of anyone you know. I hope you can understand.”

“Of course,” Neal said, grateful for any kind of distraction. His fingers typed in a few queries. “And lookie there, it’s got the complete specs for the security systems at the British Museum. This is going to be… educational. Thank you, Spock.”

“I will leave you to your distractions, then. Shall I bring the chess set with me when I return? I have been working on… my imagination.”

“I wouldn’t miss that for the world.”

xXxXxXx

Spock walked the corridors of the Enterprise with a purpose. He could not be certain if the people he encountered moved out of his way because they were naturally deferring to a member of the Command crew, if it was the purposeful way he strode down the hall, or if it was the fact he was dressed in contemporary clothing from the 21st century. In his arms, he carried a bundle of other clothing for Neal – today was the day he would be returning to New York, to explain to the FBI about the trilithium and to convince them to give it up, and Spock was going to accompany him.

Spock had been struggling with what to do about this – the fact that his association with Neal Caffrey was about to come to an end caused him to experience certain unfamiliar emotional responses. Though he wouldn’t call himself emotionally compromised, he regretted deeply the fact that he would necessarily have to leave this timeline and Neal behind. It was a very deep-seated regret, one that Spock was unfamiliar with; it made his stomach feel oddly hollow, and his chest constrict strangely as his lungs seemed momentarily incapable of supplying sufficient oxygen to maintain his bodily systems. When he shared this information with Nyota, she assured him it was normal. 

_“So, have I become your emotional development coach, then? The person to help you figure out your relationships?”_ she had asked with a smile. 

_”Yes,”_ Spock had replied simply after a moment’s careful consideration. She was indeed the only person whose counsel he would trust on such matters.

_”OK then, if that’s the case, let me assure you this is normal, and an unfortunate side effect of the work we do. Despite all the training we receive to remain unattached on our missions, we will all succumb to an emotional attachment at one point or another. It’s not something we set out to do, but it is something we can learn from and hopefully apply to our work in the future. I am sorry you will have your heart broken, Spock, I really am.”_

_“It is most unpleasant. I am… unused to such things.”_

_“As much as it is painful, my friend, you should look on it as an opportunity, perhaps, to embrace your human side. And when we get home, if you need it, I’ll be there for you, OK?”_

She then kissed him on the cheek, squeezed his hand and left him with his thoughts, which were unfortunately filled with musings on the texture and relative moistness of Neal Caffrey’s lips, and the thrill the feel of his dry, cool hand on Spock’s had sent up his spine.

He banished such thought from his mind – there was a mission to complete, and he was very likely to have to bid farewell to the object of all these musings in a few hours. It wouldn’t do to dwell on it now.

Neal looked up from the PADD Spock had lent him when the door opened, his eyes going wide when he saw the clothes Spock was wearing. He whistled low and smiled. “Hubba-hubba,” he said.

“Is something amiss?”

“Nothing,” Neal said appreciatively, and Spock wished he didn’t feel such foolhardy pride at the way Neal's eyes traveled over his body. Spock was dressed in a simple pair of grey woolen slacks and a black cashmere sweater whose soft fibers clung to his torso most comfortingly – he had earlier resolved to look into obtaining clothing of his own of the material when he returned home.

“I have brought you similar attire.” He handed it to Neal. “I am fairly certain clothes from my century would be out of place where we are going.

“You would be right.” Neal pushed down the dark grey drawstring pants he’d been wearing around the sickbay in the week he’d been on the Enterprise and stripped off the light shirt, standing before Spock in nothing but his underwear. Spock could feel his own cheeks warming as he blushed, and he wished he had the ability to control the capillary action within his own body, but he did not. Though he’d seen Neal shirtless on more than one occasion during his surveillance of the man, to see him in person was another thing entirely. The musculature of his torso was smooth and perfect, his thighs thick columns of muscle.

“Can you believe it? No scars,” Neal said, laying a hand on his abs and running it up and down. “I don’t know what kind of miracles your Dr. McCoy is capable of, but I must say I am appreciative.”

“As am I,” Spock said before he’d thought it through. He blushed more deeply, and Neal smiled and then began to pull on his own pair of black slacks. Spock had chosen a pale blue sweater for him because it was the exact shade of Neal's eyes, but to see him in it now was more than distracting. “Tell me again what to expect when we arrive,” he said, if only to get his mind off of matters that were neither professional nor relevant to the matter at hand.

“It’ll be nearly 10:00 am when we arrive – I think we need to go directly to Peter and make our case for the return of the trilithium. He’s a reasonable guy, I think he’ll believe us. More importantly, he’ll be able to convince his boss Hughes to authorize the removal of the stones from evidence. Then we get them to your ship and you can be on your way by the close of business.”

“That is …efficient. Are there any other things I must know?”

“Some sort of proof of who you are and why you’re here might be necessary – one of those fancy guns will go a long way to impressing them, I think. These law enforcement types – they do love their guns. But mostly, I think if you are sincere and truthful with Peter, that’ll go a lot farther. You’re bringing me back – he’ll like that. Less paperwork or something.”

Neal smiled again, just as dazzling, and Spock felt himself being drawn to him. He took a step forward involuntarily; Neal noticed it and Spock could see his pupils dilate slightly. “I… have brought you shoes as well,” he said rather lamely and held a pair of leather loafers up between them as if they were a shield. 

\----

Neal worked with Chekov to determine an out of the way spot in the Federal Building’s parking garage for them to beam to, and within the hour they were in the elevator to the main lobby. Caught without his ID, Neal was nonetheless able to charm their way past the guard at the desk and they were soon on their way to the 21st floor. 

When they walked through the double doors, the unit was bustling with what seemed to Spock to be an urgency and frantic energy that was nearly palpable. 

Catching movement out of the corner of her eye at Neal and Spock’s entrance, the young woman Spock recognized as Agent Berigan glanced over from where she stood in front of another agent’s desk and actually gave a small scream, dropping the file she held to the floor, and exclaiming, “Holy shit, Caffrey?”

All eyes were suddenly on Neal, and he fidgeted from foot to foot as if uncomfortable with their scrutiny. “Hi?” he said, giving a wave, and then suddenly he was surrounded by his co-workers, all of them talking at once, asking too many questions at too high a volume for even Spock to parse. 

A single voice cut through it all suddenly, and everyone turned around. “Neal!” Peter Burke said sternly from the balcony outside his office door. He then made a gesture with his right hand and returned to his office.

Neal sighed. “The double finger-point of doom,” he muttered.

“I do not understand,” Spock said. “I was under the impression that Agent Burke was your friend – does he pose a physical threat to your person?”

“Not usually, but I’ve been gone a while. Come on.” Neal trotted up the steps with Spock close behind.

They found Peter standing in the center of his office with his hands on his hips, eyes narrowed in an unhappy scowl. His short brown hair looked out of order, at least from what Spock had seen of him in the past, as if he’d been continually running his fingers through it.

“Peter, I can explain…” Neal began, but before he could say another word, Peter had crossed the two paces between them and thrown his arms around Neal's shoulders. 

“It’s been a week – I thought you were dead,” he said, his voice nearly breaking. Spock noticed that Burke’s brown eyes were bright with unshed tears; Spock respectfully cast his eyes at his shoes – this moment was a private one.

Burke released Neal but kept his hands on his upper arms, squeezing repeatedly as if unsure if Neal was really there. “They said there was too much blood, there was no way you could have survived!” Again, he pulled Neal into his arms, and Spock looked away, embarrassed at intruding on their private moment.

“Peter, I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Neal said sincerely when he was again released. “I did almost die, but Spock saved my life.” He turned and indicated Spock, stepping to the side so that the three of them formed a small circle.

“Thank you,” Peter said gratefully.

“I did what anyone would have done,” Spock said quietly.

“Where have you been?” Peter asked.

“It’s a long story. But Spock got me all fixed up, and I’m hoping to return the favor by getting him something he needs. Are the sapphires still secured downstairs?” 

“Yes.”

“Good. Listen, Peter, they aren’t what we think they are – they’re an alien compound that’s used for the development of really scary weapons. 

“Uh-huh.”

“If they fall into the wrong hands, this entire planet could be toast. We have to give them back to Spock so he can take them back to the future.”

“Okaaaaay.”

“So we need them. Like, yesterday, so could you…”

“Did you take a shot to the head, Neal? Those stones aren’t leaving the building, they’re evidence.”

“Of what?”

“An ongoing investigation.”

“Into what?”

Peter looked at the ceiling. “A little thing like Heshie’s murder? Neal –“

“Listen Peter, those stones _were_ stolen, but just not in the way you’d like to think. Tell me, since any of this started, has there been an alert from Interpol about them? Any report of a large theft like this, or even that they might have been smuggled into the country?”

“No, but…”

“That’s because they don’t belong here, and they don’t belong to anybody but Spock.” Neal indicated Spock with his thumb, and for the first time, Peter Burke seemed to fully register the newcomer. Spock watched as Burke took in his humanoid features, and how his eyes lingered around his pointed ears and eyebrows; he was well used to this kind of scrutiny from humans, having spent two years at Starfleet Academy as a student and an additional three as an instructor. He met the FBI agent’s eyes unflinchingly.

“Who are you again?” Burke asked, looking at Spock with narrowed eyes.

“I am Commander Spock of the Starship Enterprise, but you may address me as ‘Spock’ if it suits you. I assure you that everything Neal has described is true. The trilithium is not only dangerous and unstable, its presence in this building will draw those who desire it to you, and believe me, Agent Burke, you do not want that to happen.”

“Starship? As in… star… ship?” 

“I know it’s crazy, Peter, but I am asking you to believe me. For the last week, I have been on board a gigantic space ship orbiting the Earth. They’re from our own future, and they’re here to get something back, something that could be dangerous.”

“Future,” Burke repeated, his face distressingly blank.

“Peter, please. You know I never lie to you. You have to believe me.” Neal's manner was intense, urgent – a quality Spock had yet to see before. “They saved my life and I trust them.”

Spock personally could feel the conviction in Neal's voice, and it eventually seemed as if Burke had as well, because after a full minute’s consideration, he nodded. 

“Fine, I – I’ll have to get Hughes to sign off on it. But Neal, there’s something you need to know first – Mozzie’s been taken.”

“What?”

“We tried to keep him in protective custody until we were able to apprehend the perps from the bar, but he got stir crazy or something – he snuck out and before we could catch up to him… Neal!” Peter stepped forward and caught Neal in his arms as he swayed uncertainly on his feet at the news. 

“No,” Neal muttered, his face suddenly pale; he clutched at Peter’s forearms as Peter helped him to a nearby chair.

“What’s wrong with him?” Peter asked. Spock noted that he kept his hands on Neal, crouching down to peer into his face, a worried look on his face. 

“He was shot at close range by a Cardassian disruptor. Such weapons have devastating effects on soft tissues. Our doctor was able to repair the damage, though I think perhaps Neal was not as recovered as he led everyone to believe.”

“I _am_ a conman, Spock,” Neal said as Peter stood and got him the unopened bottle of water that sat on the desk. “But seriously, I’m fine – hearing about Moz was just a shock is all, I swear.”

Spock and Peter’s eyes met above Neal's head and they shared a look that said neither of them believed him.

“Stop talking about me behind my back,” Neal groused and straightened in his chair. “Peter, please tell me how long it’s been since Moz disappeared.”

“It happened yesterday. Last night, we received a communication at the safe house – they are asking for the stones in exchange for Mozzie’s safe return.”

“When?”

Peter checked his watch. “In two hours.”

“Jesus,” Neal breathed and got to his feet again. He went over to the window and stared out of it, chewing a thumbnail. “Where?”

“Warehouse uptown, in Harlem.”

Neal nodded. “You think he’s still alive?”

“I – we have no way of knowing.”

Neal nodded and slid his hands into his pockets, hanging his head. “All I can think about is Heshie,” he said quietly. 

From where Spock stood, he could tell Neal was trembling, and some instinct inside him, something fierce and protective, never wanted to see that again. “If it is any consolation, I do believe the Vendorians will ‘deal’ as you term it,” he offered.

Two sets of eyes landed on him. “What do you mean?” Neal asked. 

“Vendorians?” Peter said, looking somewhat paler than before.

“While the Vendorians have a deserved reputation for being clever and even daring thieves and smugglers, they are not inherently violent. I believe the unfortunate death of your friend, Mr. Heshie, was at the hands of the Cardassians, not the Vendorians.”

“Cardassians,” Peter repeated.

“Yes. They are a violent and cruel race. This Mr. Heshie’s death was undoubtedly at their hands – I recognized their methods… there are certain toolmarks…”

“That’s enough said about that,” Neal interrupted. “But what makes you say that? They pulled a gun on me the minute they had their chance at that bar.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “It is my belief that they did not mean to kill you – they had their weapons set to stun, and very likely intended to shoot you, then steal back the trilithium.”

“That still doesn’t prove they’ll deal,” Neal pointed out.

“But it does mean that they are likely to keep your friend alive, at least until he proves to be of no further use. And that is where I believe I can be of assistance.” He pulled his communicator out from his pocket and flipped it open. “Spock to Enterprise.”

“Yes, Commander?” came the calm voice of Ensign Chekov. 

“How long will it take to scan the city for Vendorian life signs?”

“Manhattan or all five boroughs?”

“Be as complete as you can, Mr. Chekov.”

“Three point two minutes, Commander, give or take.”

“Please begin, Mr. Chekov.”

“Wery well.”

Spock looked at the two men before him; Neal appeared to be calm, though the muscles around his eyes appeared to be strained, betraying his emotions. Burke, on the other hand, was peering at Spock with narrowed eyes. “May I help you, Agent?”

“So what are you?”

“Peter!” Neal admonished, apparently affronted on Spock’s behalf; the fact of this pleased Spock more than it ought to have.

“I am from the planet Vulcan.”

“And where’s that?”

“It was in the Alpha Quadrant, some sixteen lightyears from this system.”

“Was?” Neal said, taking a step closer to him. “Spock, when you told me you’d lost your home, you didn’t say it was your entire _planet_ ,” he gasped.

“It is… in my past.” The memory of his lost world and people still caused pain, but Spock had to focus on the matter at hand.

“But still.” Neal impulsively took his hand and Spock felt waves of sadness and compassion coming from the man, but no pity, for which he was grateful. “I don’t have words, Spock. I’m sorry.”

“You were not responsible,” Spock said softly, gently withdrawing his hand from Neal's. “I am appreciative of your understanding.” 

“Chekov to Spock,” a voice interrupted. “We have located the Wendorians; transferring the coordinates to you now.”

Spock pulled out his tricorder and an image of the city appeared, with the location of the Vendorians indicated. He showed it to Neal. “They’re in Staten Island?” Neal said, incredulous, handing the device to Burke. “If they left _now_ they wouldn’t make it to the meeting in under two hours.”

“Tourists,” Burke deadpanned, handing the tricorder back.

**To be continued…**


	4. Chapter 4

Neal let out the breath he’d been holding; Spock had assured him the transporter was a perfectly safe option, especially given the lack of time they had to find Moz, but it still gave him the willies. It had taken some fast talking to convince Peter to let the Enterprise team take the lead in recovering Moz and, more importantly, to let Neal accompany them, but given the lack of time, he’d finally relented.

Neal glanced to his right at Spock, who gave him a raised eyebrow. Taking it as his cue, Neal glanced up at the building they’d materialized behind and then walked over to the back entrance, lock picks at the ready. 

According to Chekov’s scans, the Vendorians were still in this building. However, interstellar laws being what they were, apparently the Enterprise’s crew couldn’t just beam the aliens out of there without probable cause or some such bullshit. If Neal thought the law book on searches and seizures he’d read during the Dutchman case was heavy, he wanted to see the size of the intergalactic version; according to Spock it took several terabytes in the ship’s computer systems. Complicating matters was the fact that there was more than one human inside the building, a former candle manufacturing plant that had been converted into shops and offices, so they couldn’t just lock onto Moz and beam him to safety.

The plan was for Neal to break in, attach a locator device to him – Neal wore one as well – and then the two of them would be beamed to the Enterprise. Then Spock and the security detail he’d brought would bust in and take the Vendorians into custody. 

The building had a central service corridor on the first floor, along which each of the units had an access door. The unit at the south corner was where the Vendorians had apparently holed up, and Neal headed for that one first, Spock and the others right behind him, moving as silently as Neal did. Neal took special care to make no sound as he worked on the two locks – both of them deadbolts; Spock had told him that Vendorians had especially acute hearing, and there was no way he was going to give their presence away. At last, he got the locks open and turned the knob, lifting the door slightly on its hinges to prevent them from squeaking. He glanced back at the team from the Enterprise, who were grim-faced and focused, not unlike Peter and the Harvard Crew during such situations – it was good to see some things never changed. Again, Spock raised an eyebrow and Neal smiled at him – he was going to have to learn a bit more about the Vulcan’s facial expressions, he found them utterly fascinating.

Neal opened the door only wide enough to allow himself entry, easing his slim body through it sideways. The business he found himself in was an abandoned travel agency, with posters on every wall cheerfully advertising exotic vacation destinations from around the world. Given the reason he was there, they kind of freaked Neal out. He found himself in a narrow corridor with a few small rooms to either side; he hoped to find Moz in one of them. He crept to the first, a tiny break room with a kitchenette and refrigerator. He wasn’t in there. 

The next room was an office, its lights off. Neal stood half in its doorway and closed his eyes for a moment, so his eyes would adjust faster. After a few seconds, he thought he could see a slight sheen as the ambient light from the front of the shop reflected off a bald pate, which hung forward between a set of slumped shoulders. “Moz?” he whispered.

“Neal?” Moz raised his head; he sounded neither abused nor exhausted, which was a relief. “It’s about time you got this far. You were clomping around like a freaking horse out there.”

“Was not,” Neal denied, annoyed – he’d been super quiet. He rushed forward and around the chair Moz was tied to, facing the far wall. “You OK? They… do anything?” He started sawing through the zip ties with a pocket knife.

“Other than talking my ear off, not really. I do need to pee, though.” 

A pair of voices sounded from the large storefront that fronted the space, and Neal ducked down behind Moz. “We’ll take care of that soon enough.” Neal stood, helping Moz to his feet and holding onto his arm to support him. “Here, you’ll need this.” Neal pinned the homing device onto Moz’s shirt and patted him on the chest. 

“What is it?”

“Our ticket outta here. You ready, you OK?”

“Yeah.”

“Right,” Neal said and pressed the button on the device he himself wore to alert the tech in the transporter room that they were ready to be beamed up. “Hold onto your hair,” he said with a wink, then watched the expression on Moz’s face as they both disintegrated where they stood.

When they arrived on board the Enterprise, Neal tried to pull Moz off the transporter pad, but his friend was frozen to the spot, a shocked expression on his face. “Moz? Come on, I want to get the doc to take a look at you.” Moz didn’t move. Neal pulled on his arm. “Come on, Mozzie, I thought you said you had to use the restroom?”

“Not anymore,” Moz mumbled.

Neal made a moue of distaste as he watched a wet spot grow on the front of Moz’s trousers. “I’m really sorry,” he said to the assembled medical staff and the transporter tech as he tugged Moz from the pad, “he hardly ever does this at home.” 

\----

“You will not touch me with your anal probe,” Moz warned McCoy as the good doctor was attempting to evaluate him using his medical tricorder. They were in a treatment cubicle in the sickbay, Moz now wearing the dark grey pajamas that were the 23rd century equivalent of a hospital gown. 

“Moz, relax, he’s just trying to scan you. To make sure you’re healthy,” Neal soothed, but Moz was – 

“Jumpier ‘n a long-tailed cat in a rocking chair factory,” McCoy muttered, setting the tricorder aside. “Fine, if you want to go old school, we can go old school.” He picked up a very sleek tool that turned out to be the 23rd century equivalent of an otoscope and attempted to have a look inside Moz’s ear.

“Hey, back off, E.T.!”

“Moz! He’s a man like you or me, come on!” Neal scolded, and Moz calmed marginally. 

McCoy checked the readings on the biobed instead and turned to Neal. “Allowing for an elevated blood pressure due to the stress of being here, he’s only a little dehydrated. Looks like the Vendorians barely laid a tentacle on ‘im.”

“Tentacle?” Moz squeaked.

“Well yeah, don’t you know what those guys look like in their natural state?” He picked up a PADD and entered a command, then shared it with Moz. “They’re [shapeshifting cephalopods](http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/Vendorian), see? Not normally violent, but damned sneaky.”

Moz had to have a lie-down. 

Some movement in the waiting area caught Neal's attention, but McCoy stayed him with a hand on his arm and said quietly, “Listen, I don’t want to alarm your friend, but you might advise him to see a doctor when you return home. He’s got some benign polyps in his colon – nothing serious but he should have them removed.”

“Wait, _did_ you anally probe him?”

McCoy scowled. “I’m a doctor not a barbarian, man! The tricorder picked it up.”

“Ah. Thanks, Doctor.”

Neal went into the outer room to find Spock seated on a biobed with Nurse Chapel running a tricorder over him. “What happened?” Spock had a gash over his left eye that oozed blood down the side of his face in alarming rivulets.

“There was flying glass,” Spock replied calmly. The nurse picked up another device and held it steadily over the wound. Neal watched in fascination as the cut began to knit together. After a minute, it was nearly gone, then Chapel began to clean the blood off of Spock’s face and neck. He waved her aside. “I will attend to it, nurse, if you don’t mind, in my own quarters.”

She nodded and walked away. 

“Green blood, huh?” Neal said to him, trying for nonchalance. 

Spock nodded. “Vulcan blood has a high concentration of copper; it turns green when oxygenated.”

“Moz will freak when he learns there are little green men.”

“How is your friend Mr. Moz?” Spock asked politely.

“Resting uncomfortably. The doctor says he’s fine. Did you catch the bad guys?”

“The Vendorians were apprehended and both of them are in the brig. We have just to recover the trilithium and we can return home.”

Neal tried not to show his disappointment and failed, looking down. “Right, have to get back to the future, don’t you?”

“It is where I belong, as this is where you belong, Neal.” 

Neal sighed, not wanting to face the inevitable. “I know, I – have kind of gotten used to you is all.” He turned away. 

A hand in the crook of his elbow made him turn. “I posit that the FBI will be unwilling or unable to release the trilithium without a certain amount of what you might term crimson adhesive.”

“Red tape?”

“That is what I said. We have, by my calculations, a minimum of the next eighteen hours before us.”

“Yes?”

“The Captain has made it my sole duty to recover the trilithium. It seems logical, therefore, that I remain in the company of the one man who can facilitate its return.”

A smile began to curl the edges of Neal's lips. “I see.”

“As the Cardassian threat has been eliminated, and the Vendorians have been apprehended, there is no reason to assume you would be endangered by being returned to your home for the intervening space of time. However, I feel it is my duty to accompany you, to protect our interests.”

“Mmm,” Neal said non-committally, though he eased closer into Spock’s personal space. “Is that your way of inviting yourself back to my place?”

Spock raised an eyebrow, though his face opened up in the expression Neal had come to understand over the last few days meant he was in a good mood. “It would be my _duty_.”

“Far be it for me to stand in the way of that,” Neal replied, leaning forward from the waist, turning his head to the side, and catching Spock’s mouth with his. The kiss was chaste at first, just dry lips pressing together, but when Spock opened his mouth to his, and Neal felt the other man’s hot tongue exploring his mouth, he grabbed the front of Spock’s sweater with his hand and pulled him closer.

When they parted, Spock’s eyes remained fixed on Neal's lower lip, and he studied it as if seeing it for the first time. “Fascinating,” he breathed and reached a hand around Neal's neck to pull him in for another kiss. 

\----

They materialized in a secluded spot in Riverside park not far from June’s, in a corner just off the main path where Dumpsters and gardening equipment were housed. 

Moz immediately began to walk away. 

“Where are you going?” Neal called after him. 

“Anywhere but here,” Moz said. “There is no way I’m sticking around so they can catch me again and perform their experiments.”

“They don’t experiment, Moz, they boldly go –“

“What does that even mean? Look, Neal, I’ll catch you on the flip-side, OK? Have fun with ALF!” With that, he was off like a shot, and Neal imagined he’d probably take three subways and a few busses before he’d land in whatever safehouse he’d be in for the night. 

Neal shook his head and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket; he still couldn’t believe he hadn’t lost the thing after all that had happened. 

“What are you doing?” Spock was at his elbow, and Neal turned toward him with a smile. 

“Texting Peter that everything went well – he’ll be worried.”

“You are very close to him.”

“I think after all we’ve been through, it’s safe to say we love and respect each other.”

“Oh.” Spock looked away.

“Not in that way, Spock,” Neal hastened to explain, catching his expression. “We’re friends. And Peter’s straight. And married. To a lovely woman. Who’d kill him and then me if either of us even _thought_ about it. Not that Peter would, since he is, as I’ve mentioned, straight. Also, I will shut up now.” Neal pressed his lips together, suspecting he was babbling, but he was gratified to see relief on Spock’s face.

“I am sorry to have been so presumptuous; however, I have noticed Agent Burke is remarkably tactile with you. I have learned, in my time among humans, that such behavior tends to indicate intimacy.”

“You’re not the first to get the wrong impression – Peter’s a handsy guy. So – we’ve got the evening and the entire night ahead of us before you have to leave – what would you like to do on old Earth, Spock?”

“I would like to spend my remaining time here with you, Neal.”

Neal smiled at his frank manner – part of the “logic” Spock had explained to him was the basic tenet of Vulcan society; he found it refreshing. “Glad to hear it. Shall we go for dinner, then? There’s a great Thai place just around the corner.” 

\----

Neal squirmed, throwing his head against his door to improve access to the space just behind his ear that the hot Vulcan in his arms was currently exploring with tongue and teeth. He suppressed a groan.

Dinner had been a quick affair, with each of them giving the other longing and lustful looks, and so they’d barely gotten through the spring rolls before Neal was asking the waiter to box up their dinners to go. 

“Fuck me,” Neal gasped as Spock sucked a mark on his throat.

“That is my intention, Neal. Have I misinterpreted your willingness to participate in that activity?”

“Shut up and kiss me,” Neal muttered and pulled Spock’s face up to meet his mouth. 

The sensation of Spock’s warm hands pushing under his shirt to run along his ribs several minutes later spurred Neal to action and he pushed off the door, walking them over toward his bed. When Spock’s legs hit the bed, he sat, and Neal used their momentum to press him back until he was lying down, Neal on top of him, their hips pressed together. He could feel Spock’s hard-on straining against his pants, and angled his own hips so that their dicks were rubbing against each other. Spock moaned, causing Neal to smile – it was the first sound he’d gotten out of him so far. 

“I apologize, it has been some time since I have been intimate with anyone.”

“Don’t apologize,” Neal breathed, rolling off him and pulling Spock’s shirt up, then working at the fastenings on his pants. “Want to make you scream if I can.” He pushed his left hand down, palming Spock’s cock over his briefs, squeezing and rubbing, alternating his rhythm and pressure as he went.

Spock made stuttering, breathy sounds in the back of his throat that Neal took to mean encouragement. He got up and off the bed, kneeling between Spock’s legs and pulling his pants down towards the floor. Spock’s dick lay inside his briefs like a lurking monster, confined by the snug fabric. Neal bent over and mouthed its tip, breathing over it and smiled when he felt it twitch. “Let’s see what we’ve got here, shall we?” Neal said, his mouth watering and his own dick throbbing; he peeled Spock’s briefs down and marveled at the sight before him.

Spock’s dick was, not surprisingly, different, but Neal didn’t expect it to be beautiful. The entire thing was covered in a series of ridges arranged in seemingly random whorls and patterns. The ridges themselves were raised and well-defined; when Neal ran a fingertip over them, they gave slightly, then sprang back like the gills on a mushroom. Spock gasped at the contact, and so Neal repeated it, exploring the turgid flesh with his fingertips. Along the top were larger, more-pronounced nodules arranged in a graduated pattern from the base to the glans. His testicles were similar to a human’s, but the whole of Spock’s genitalia was shaded a dark, olive green that contrasted well with the man’s pale skin.

“My God, Spock,” he breathed, almost in awe.

“It is to your liking?” Spock had pushed himself up on his elbows and was eyeing Neal curiously.

“It is beautiful. These patterns, they’re almost mathematical,” he observed.

“All male Vulcans have such features on their genitalia, though each man’s is unique, not unlike a fingerprint for humans.”

“And these?” Neal ran his middle finger along the nodules on the top.

“Those, too, are typical in Vulcan males, and become more pronounced at the time of erection. Their purpose is to stimulate orgasm in the female, whose own ova are not released until she has reached climax.”

“Ribbed for her pleasure?” Neal joked.

“Indeed, though Vulcan penises do not have the pronounced glans at the distal end, as you see on mine… that is…” Spock’s voice cracked as Neal wrapped his lips around it, “that is a result of my human ancestry.”

“Mmmm,” Neal responded, swirling his tongue over and around the whorls and ridges on the underside of Spock’s penis, luxuriating in the feel of it. He fanned his fingers along its length, not able to get enough of touching it, of feeling the texture and patterns there. Soon though, attention to the task at hand got the better of him, and he was bobbing his head up and down on Spock, his lips keeping up a steady suction, making smacking, popping sounds as he went, his saliva now running slick down his chin and the length of Spock’s shaft. Neal collected some of it and reached a fingertip underneath Spock’s balls, taking a chance the man’s anus would be where a human’s would be, and hitting paydirt. He pressed at the pucker, felt it flutter beneath his touch and massaged it with the same rhythm he was using in going down on Spock. 

Spock groaned and writhed beneath him, his hands coming up to grasp Neal's head. “If you do not cease, I will soon ejaculate into your mouth,” he gasped, and Neal pulled off of him with a grin, wiping the spit from his chin as he sat back on his heels. 

“Wouldn’t want that to happen, now would we? Now might be a good time to take a pause – we are entirely too clothed.”

“I tend to agree. Will you allow me to assist in your disrobing?”

“Knock yourself out.” 

Spock sat up and helped Neal off with his sweater, pulling it up and over his head. Neal knelt before him, and Spock merely stared, open-mouthed. Neal was about to say something when Spock lifted a trembling hand and laid it on Neal's right pec, squeezing. “I have spent more time imagining a moment such as this over the last few days than is wholly appropriate.”

“Aw, you’ve been fantasizing about me?”

“I believe that would be the proper word for it.”

“Am I what you expected, then?”

“You are better,” he said, then slid to his knees before Neal, who backed up a bit to give him room, and placed the flat of his tongue over Neal's nipple. Neal sucked in his breath and arched his back, wanting more contact, and Spock obliged, dragging his bottom teeth over the sensitive nubbin. After a minute, Spock stopped what he was doing and looked at Neal. “I apologize, I was distracted. Were we not engaged in disrobing?”

Neal laughed and they each got naked, then stretched out on Neal's bed beside each other and started making out again. Neal's hand trailed lazily down the dark hairs of Spock’s well-defined chest and flat belly to rest once again on that magnificent cock, stroking it slowly as they kissed. He noticed that the bumps on the top of Spock’s dick got harder the more aroused Spock got, and nearly came at the thought of all of that inside him. He told Spock so, and smiled as the other man blushed to the tips of his pointy ears.

“Have I embarrassed you, Spock?”

“I hardly think it possible given all that we have engaged in to this point. However, the thought of penetrating you is highly pleasing. Shall I prepare you for that eventuality?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Neal rolled over to the nightstand and pulled out lube and some condoms, and Spock was soon beside him, taking the items and pulling Neal toward him. Soon Neal was leaning on his forearms with Spock behind him, and – “Ohhhhh… fucking hell!” he moaned as Spock pressed the flat of his tongue against his asshole. 

“Do you find this pleasurable?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?”

“I fail to understand what the nominal head of the Roman Catholic Church has to do with your enjoyment of –“

“That’s a ‘yes,’ Spock,” Neal said over his shoulder with a grin. “Now get back to it.”

Spock’s tongue was a talented thing, and at certain points, Neal wondered if perhaps he had two of them. Spock reached forward to slowly jack Neal's cock, and he moaned, pressing his ass back against Spock’s face at one point, his dick hanging hard and heavy between his legs. Spock pressed a finger against Neal's perineum then, hard, and Neal cried out, “Oh God, don’t stop!” and then he buried his face in his forearms. 

Neal was usually pretty self-conscious about the sounds he made during sex – and four years in prison had made him a silent guy – but Spock was absolutely giving him the rimming of his life and he felt the guy deserved to know how well he was getting on. Soon Spock’s tongue was replaced by his finger, but Neal was so far gone, if it hadn’t been for the cool sensation of a generous application of some lube, he wasn’t sure if he’d have noticed the difference. 

Spock’s fingers were long and graceful, and soon he had worked a second one in to join the first. Neal rocked his hips, fucking himself down on Spock’s hand and making impatient noises.

“Am I to infer from your increased enthusiasm that you are amenable to the penetration of your –“

“Are you always this talkative?” Neal interrupted.

“I – yes?” Spock stammered. “I have been told so. Is it a problem?”

“Nope, just asking. Oh, and fuck me already, before I completely lose my mind.”

Spock actually smiled before grabbing for the condom. He nudged at Neal’s hip and pushed him to lie on his back. “If you don’t mind, I would like to perform coitus face-to-face.”

Neal smiled and sat up, caressing Spock’s face with an open palm and kissing him. “Of course I don’t mind,” he said, and lay back while Spock put the condom on his own massive erection. 

Neal marveled at Spock’s strength as he easily lifted Neal’s hips and lined up his cock with his ass. He sucked in a breath as Spock pressed the head of his dick through the initial resistance, savoring the burn of it; it had been too long since he’d had sex, much less with a man.

“Is something the matter?” Spock asked, stilling suddenly.

“It’s nothing, I…” Neal blinked suddenly as he caught himself crafting a half-truth for Spock’s benefit and he mentally chastised himself. He wanted to be truthful with Spock, as Spock had been with him. “It’s been a while since I’ve done this, and it – I almost forgot how much I like being with a man.”

Spock had a curious expression on his face “I have never been with a man before,” he admitted. 

“What, really? You could have fooled me.”

“It is flattering that you did not notice, though I find it difficult to believe.”

“I would not lie to you, Spock.”

“Nor would I.”

“Then let me say, truthfully, how much I would like for you to fuck me into the mattress. Right now.”

Spock cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow, and before Neal knew it, he was balls-deep in his ass and sliding back out again. Neal gasped at the suddenness of the movement and let his eyes roll back in his head. The sensation of the nodules on Spock’s penis dragging across his prostate, even through the thin sheath of the condom, made him see stars even with his eyes closed, and Neal concentrated on the feel of every single one.

“Faster,” he whispered, fists clutching at the bedspread. “Please.”

“Very well.” Spock’s words were casual, but the tone of his voice was not. Neal opened his eyes to look up at him, and the sight was truly beautiful. Spock was covered in a thin sheen of sweat that matted the hair on his chest and made his perfect complexion practically glow. His eyes were dark and wide, and met Neal's with an expression at once fierce and tender. Neal was overcome with the desire to kiss him, so he reached for him. Spock let go of Neal's hips and leaned over him, covering Neal's mouth with his as Neal settled his legs around Spock’s waist. 

The pressure as their bodies pressed together trapped Neal's cock between them and he gasped, “I’m going to come!”

Spock took hold of Neal's dick in his and squeezed it lightly. “I wish for us to climax in concert,” he informed Neal.

“Then you’d better hurry up,” Neal said desperately, clutching at Spock’s neck and holding his face against his own neck. Spock’s lips latched on to the tender skin and began to suck, and Neal nearly lost it. He tightened the grip of his legs around Spock, digging his heels into his ass, pulling him in, wanting to feel all of him, and when they both came, Spock bit down reflexively on Neal's neck, very nearly breaking the skin.

When they’d calmed down, Neal lay with Spock’s head cushioned on his chest, idly fingering the delicate tip of an ear. “Darn,” he said softly.

“What is the matter?”

“I promised to make you scream,” Neal said, affecting a very fake and obvious pout. 

“You will have to try harder next time.”

“There will be a next time?”

“The refractory period for a healthy Vulcan male is, on average, 3.5 minutes.”

“What about you?”

“As I am half human, the time is, unfortunately, longer.”

“Oh?”

“I will require 4.3 minutes.”

“I see. I will need a bit longer than that.”

“Vulcan saliva is also a very powerful aphrodisiac.”

“Really?”

“No, but I surmised that such a wild fabrication would be in the proper spirit of this post-coital banter. Was I incorrect?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

xXxXxXx

Spock woke to the rare and entirely unexpected pleasure of sunlight streaming through the skylights above Neal's bed, warming his bare torso. As awareness came to him, he took an unaccustomed extra moment to luxuriate in its warmth and glow. However, as he came more awake, he became even more aware of a dissonance in this place, amorphous and indistinct as emotion sometimes was when he perceived it in others, but unusually strong, since he was currently not in physical contact with anyone.

He knew he was alone in Neal's bed before he opened his eyes; he also sensed the man’s physical location, so he rose, donned the robe Neal had left for him at the foot of the bed, and went to find him.

Neal was on the terrace outside the glass doors that made up the west-facing wall of his apartment, seated facing away from Spock, his shoulders hunched forward as if he was looking at something in his lap. As Spock approached him, the wave of despair he felt intensified, making Spock almost nauseous with its sheer force. 

“Neal? Is something the matter?”

Neal stiffened when he heard Spock’s voice, and rose. When he turned to face Spock, he very clearly was trying – and failing – to erect his usual conman’s façade of lightness and blandness on his face. In his right hand he held – Spock immediately recognized what he held, he just wondered how Neal had gotten it here.

“You are holding a PADD.”

“Yes, it’s the one you gave me last week.” Neal's voice was hollow, higher-pitched than usual.

“The one I altered so that you could read none of the history of this timeline,” Spock added, feeling apprehensive. The look on Neal's face was enough to confirm what he thought, but still he needed to hear it. “What have you done?”

“I hacked it, just out of curiosity. Wanted to look up my friends, really, and I –“

“You have read your own bio,” Spock concluded, and closed his eyes at the next wave of sorrow that assaulted him from Neal's direction. While Spock was primarily a touch-telepath, he could pick up on anyone who was experiencing particularly strong emotions given a close enough proximity.

“I didn’t mean to, I swear, but there was a link from Peter’s and…” He sat down heavily on the chaise on which he’d been perched a moment before. 

“You now know the date and manner of your own death,” Spock guessed.

“I am to die of a rare blood cancer. I won’t live to see 40, Spock. I don’t even – what am I supposed to do with that?”

Having had a human mother, Spock knew what they needed when faced with moments of extreme distress, and so he walked up to Neal and stood before him, his arms extended slightly. 

“What?” Neal asked, blinking as he looked up.

“I believe it is customary in these situations to offer physical comfort, Neal.”

“No, Spock, you shouldn’t feel… what… I’m feeling,” he replied haltingly, the tears falling despite his efforts to keep them at bay.

“I already do,” Spock said sadly, and put his arms around Neal, who pushed his own arms around Spock’s waist and held onto him desperately. “I cannot comfort thee, but I can grieve with thee,” Spock said quietly, and they stayed there for a long time.

\----

“Here, you can borrow a shirt and some underwear from me – I swear they’re clean. Peter’ll be expecting us by 10:00.”

“Neal?” Spock watched as Neal deposited a small pile of clothing on the bed beside him, then crossed to the mirrored front of his wardrobe to tie his own tie. He’d earlier gone to take a shower to clear his head and now here he was, nearly fully-dressed in his usual three-piece suit, looking as perfect as ever.

“If all goes well, we’ll have you on your way by lunchtime, but you’d better hurry – Peter loves to bitch me out when I’m late.”

“Neal, a being much brasher than I once advised me that the Nile is not just the major north-flowing river in the northeastern African continent.”

Neal turned to face him, his own eyebrow raised in an expression Spock hoped was not meant to be mocking. “What are you saying?”

“I would posit that you have not allowed yourself the necessary time to process the news you received this morning. It cannot be good for your mental and emotional well-being to ignore the fact you have just learned of your impending death.”

“In six years.”

“I do not understand.”

“It’s not happening for another six years.” Neal shrugged and went back to tying his tie. “There’s no sense worrying about it now. It wouldn’t be _logical_.”

Spock stared at him with his mouth actually hanging open several centimeters. Not an hour before, the man had learned the date and manner of his own death, and now here he was getting dressed to go to a meeting. “Neal, I do not think that even a _Vulcan_ would bear this news with as much stoicism as you have. It concerns me.”

Neal closed his eyes and turned to look at Spock. “When you’ve led the kind of life I have, Spock, you learn to compartmentalize,” he explained quietly.

“I wish I could say I believe you,” Spock began, but there was a brittle look in Neal's eye that made him drop it. He rose and took up the extra clothes Neal had supplied, grabbed his own slacks, and headed for the bathroom. 

\----

Spock sat upright in the backseat of the taxi, uncomfortable with the silence that had befallen him and Neal. They had been allowed to retrieve the trilithium with a minimum of fuss and were on their way back to Neal's apartment, from where Spock would beam to the Enterprise. Spock had deemed it the safest alternative, so that no one in the city would witness the beam-out, but in truth he wanted the opportunity to bid Neal goodbye in private.

Spock didn’t know what to feel or how to act in these last hours he had with Neal. There was no doubt he was going to miss being with him – he would not deny that the strong attraction he’d had to him during his surveillance had blossomed into an intense regard and even affection. In Starfleet, they had even offered classes on dealing with the emotional fallout when faced with the prospect of leaving loved ones behind in the course of a mission, though Spock had naturally not taken them, deeming them unnecessary given his Vulcan upbringing.

But complicating his feelings was the added stress of Neal's learning of his death, and the knowledge of it, while not exactly news to Spock (who had had to make quite a detailed study of Neal's life over the last weeks), was a heavy burden. Neal was still as dead in Spock’s time as he had been before, but illogically, being faced with the very real prospect of it, and having to witness the revelation of it to the man himself made Spock feel as grief-stricken as if Neal was his contemporary. He longed to comfort and to soothe, but knew his efforts could not provide much of either. He had not felt this helpless since the destruction of his home planet and the death of his mother.

The taxi pulled up in front of the stately home where Neal resided, and Spock went to the trunk to retrieve the small yet sturdy crate the FBI had provided for its transportation. He followed Neal to the front door and up the stairs to his apartment, setting the box down beside the door and closing it gently behind him, and turned to face Neal.

He was unprepared for the assault of hot, needy human that met him as Neal threw himself into Spock’s arms, his kisses no doubt more urgent given the circumstances, and who was Spock to deny him? They soon moved to the bed, still rumpled from the night before, where they made a desperate kind of love that made Spock wonder if this heavy feeling within him was what a “broken heart” felt like. As he lay with Neal in his arms, his head pillowed on his shoulder, Spock’s thoughts turned reluctantly to the duties he would have to perform once he returned to the Enterprise – the delicate calculations that would slingshot them around the sun and back to the point from where they’d left would take him some time and he did not relish it. So preoccupied was he that he almost didn’t hear Neal speak.

“Take me with you?” His voice was so quiet, it was no surprise that Spock nearly hadn’t heard, so he asked him to repeat himself. 

“Can you take me with you?”

“You know that I cannot.”

“Why not? There’s really nothing left for me here. I don’t think I could bear to be here, not now that I know what I know.”

“It would be impossible. It would violate one of our most important laws – the Prime Directive was created to prevent interference with cultures and civilizations. That includes those cultures’ citizens as well, Neal. It is our most basic ethical precept.”

“Which you violated the moment you interfered at that bar, not to mention when you saved my life.” Neal sat up and glared down at Spock, the absence of his warmth something Spock wished he could mourn as well.

“Yes, and when I return to my own time, I will have to answer for that offense. I cannot take you with me, Neal, you have a place here. You have great things yet to accomplish.”

Neal snorted derisively. “In six years? I doubt it.”

“You know as well as I that that is not true. Your most important work lies ahead of you.”

“Oh yeah, Neal Caffrey, legendary artist. I wish I could say I cared about any of that.”

“You should – it is your legacy.”

“And it means nothing to me if I won’t live to see it. Take me with you.”

It was Spock’s turn to sit up. “I will not.”

“You _will not_?” Neal got out of the bed and backed away as if Spock had struck him; Spock could see that he was shaking. 

“You have a life here, people who care for you. I will not take you away from that support system.”

“It means nothing to me now.”

“But it will, Neal, eventually. Please do not ask me again.”

“No. No, I won’t,” Neal said coldly and turned around to walk from the room. “Please go and take your worthless rocks away – you’ve brought me nothing but pain.” He slammed the door that led to the bathroom behind him, leaving Spock to stare after him.

It took Spock no time at all to dress himself in the clothes he’d worn when he arrived the day before. He found his communicator in his pocket and affixed it to his chest. “Spock to Enterprise,” he said.

“Yes, Commander?” came the voice of whoever was on duty in the Transporter room – Spock did not recognize him. 

“One to beam up, plus one crate filled with trilithium. Please be sure there is a representative from Engineering to take possession of it when I arrive.”

“Aye, sir.”

Spock glanced around the small apartment he’d been watching the last three weeks sadly – he could admit to himself that he would miss it. The drawings around the place that he recognized as Neal's work, the books, the furnishings – he would remember all of them. 

“Ready when you are, sir.”

Spock’s mouth was open to give the order, when the door opened and Neal emerged. “Spock, wait!” he called.

“Enterprise, delay beaming.”

“Aye.”

Neal crossed the space from the door to the doorway in four strides and grasped Spock’s hand. “I’m sorry for what I said, please forgive me!” he said, settling the hand on his chest. He was dressed how, in khakis and a thin t-shirt.

“Neal, there is nothing to forgive.” 

Neal stepped into his space and hugged him. “Thank you for saving my life – I owe what’s left of it to you. Just – go knowing that, OK? I am grateful.”

Spock pressed a kiss against Neal's neck and then released him. He took a step back and raised his hand in the ta’al.

“What’s that mean?” Neal asked.

Spock stared at his hand, aware that the usual greeting would be inappropriate and offered a smile instead. “It is the salute of my people, offered to friends and loved ones. I will not forget you, Neal.”

Neal smiled, and Spock tapped his communicator again. “Spock to Enterprise. Energize.”

xXxXxXx

Neal stood and watched the space Spock had occupied for several minutes after he had gone, his thoughts and emotions too jumbled up with each other to even allow him to move. Viciously suppressing them both at last, he busied himself with tidying up his apartment, stripping the sheets from the bed, sorting out his dry cleaning. Anything to keep his mind occupied with the mundane, anything that would keep him from _thinking_ anymore. He was saved from doing anything truly desperate, like cleaning the bathroom, by a knock on his door.

“Hey, thought I’d stop by, make sure the stones made it back safely,” Peter said when Neal opened the door. He held a bottle of 25-year old whiskey in his hand. “See if there were any sorrows in need of drowning.” 

He walked towards the kitchenette to get some glasses, and so he missed the momentary loss of control Neal had over his features, his face crumpling for a moment. Still, it wasn’t as if Neal had a smile or anything on his face by the time Peter made it to the table and started to pour them each two fingers’ worth. 

“You really liked him, didn’t you?” Peter asked, glancing at Neal then averting his eyes almost respectfully.

“Yes.” Neal took a seat at the table and Peter handed him a glass.

“I’m sorry he had to go – he seemed to like you, too.”

“There was a… connection, sure,” Neal allowed and took a large sip of the whiskey. It burned on the way down, but at least it provided him with an excuse to have tears in his eyes. He gasped slightly, playing it up. 

“I think there was more than a connection,” Peter said. “I think you fell for him.”

“We knew each other all of a week, Peter.”

“I knew I was in love with El after one date.”

“I suppose you have a point?” Neal snapped, rising. He crossed to the fridge and added a few ice cubes to his glass. 

“I’m sorry – I guess I don’t have one after all,” Peter said quietly

Neal felt the tension in his body subside – he couldn’t maintain any kind of anger, not now. “No, _I’m_ sorry, Peter, that was rude.” He turned and went back to sit at the table. “I guess I did have feelings for Spock – he certainly changed my life.”

“He changed both our lives – I don’t think I’ll be able to look at the world in quite the same way now – or the universe, for that matter. The things we’ve seen, Neal… I don’t know how I’m going to be able to explain them. I can’t ignore them – there are reports to be filed, paperwork.”

“Just chalk it up to unexplained phenomena. Send it to the X-Files or something.” He managed a quirk of his lips that he was almost certain looked like a smile.

Peter rolled his eyes. 

“Your reports have been stellar examples of creative writing in the past,” Neal pointed out, reaching for the bottle to replenish his now-empty glass. Suddenly, getting rip-roaringly drunk seemed like a good idea so he poured a tumbler full. “They’ve kept _me_ out of jail, haven’t they?” He stopped when Peter’s warm hand landed on his wrist. He dared not look him in the eyes, he was on a knife’s edge between hysteria and despair.

“You gonna tell me what’s really bothering you?” Peter asked quietly. “I know you – you’re not yourself.”

Neal turned away. “Almost dying puts things in perspective,” he said, getting up again and walking over to the sink. He stared at the bright track lights in the ceiling to stop the tears forming. “Makes you appreciate your life and the people in it. It's not something I think I will forget.”

“I thought they cured you up there?”

“They did, but – I know what it feels like now, Peter,” he finished, his voice low and he wasn’t just talking about getting shot. He jumped when he felt Peter’s hand on his shoulder – he hadn’t heard him come over. And now he was going to lose it; he made a small shout, and shook his head. “GAH! Sorry, Peter, I guess I’m just feeling really morbid and self-pitying.”

“You’re entitled. Besides, you’re safe now, the aliens are all gone – we hope – and we can get on with our lives.”

“What’s left of them anyway,” Neal couldn’t help but say, some morbidity remaining. “You’ll remember me when I’m gone, won’t you, Peter? Even when you’re up on Capitol Hill?”

“Capitol Hill? Are you crazy? I’d never be a politician.”

“That’s what you think.”

“Anyway, I don’t know what you’re talking about – you’ll outlive us all, Neal Caffrey. You’ve got more lives than a cat.” 

_Fake it ‘til you make it, right?_ Neal smiled as wide as he could until it felt real. 

“I think I just might.”

xXxXxXx

It was twelve hours later and, having seen that the trilithium had been stowed inside a stasis field in Engineering and laid in the calculations that safely returned them to their own time, Spock headed toward his quarters with a weariness he ought not to be feeling, but that nonetheless felt deserved. He stripped off the 21st century clothes he still wore and donned the black and red Vulcan robe he favored, intending to head for a long shower before his evening meditations when there was a chime at his door.

“Who is it?”

“Commander? It’s Ensign Kim from Engineering. I have a package for you.”

Raising an eyebrow, Spock crossed the room to answer the door. Ensign Kim, an owl-faced young woman Spock remembered shared his enthusiasm for Andorian opera, stood in the doorway and held out a large manila envelope. “We found it in the crate with the trilithium, sir,” she explained. “It’s addressed to you.”

Spock looked down at the envelope in his hand, the letters of his name inscribed in neat, block letters, and thanked the young woman. He took a seat at his desk and slid his fingers under the flap, sliding it open. Inside was a sketch of himself in the suit and fedora he’d been wearing when he’d first met Neal, standing with his hands in his pockets, a cocky and very un-Spock-like smile on his face; he wondered if that’s how Neal saw him. 

There was a note affixed to it as well: 

_My Dearest Spock,_

_I hope this will be of value when you get home – a Neal Caffrey original! You have given me something special, so I hope this small thing will repay the favor._

_You will always be in my heart,  
NC_

He stood staring at the sketch with mixed feelings, love, regret, and happiness mixing together in a confusing morass. But mostly he wondered when Neal had had the opportunity to slip the thing into the case.

“Computer,” he called, sitting back in the chair and staring at the sketch with a queer half-smile on his face. “Play song 352.3.” The music filled his quarters and eventually, he began to sing along.

_Should I give up,  
Or should I just keep chasing pavements?  
Even if it leads nowhere,  
Or would it be a waste?_


	5. Chapter 5

**Three years later…**

_**First Officer’s Log** _

_We have answered a distress call emanating from Gamma Cephus IV, a deep space outpost in the beta quadrant that has reported sporadic power fluctuations that endanger the scientific assets and data they say they store in their vaults and databanks. I and Mr. Scott will be heading to the station with an Engineering team to troubleshoot their systems. I expect it to be a routine repair mission, with no further complication._

\----

Spock gazed down at the fawning Director of Supra-Planetary Relationship Management for the QryoGenX Corporation and tried not to fantasize about what it would have been like had the Vulcan people not curtailed their ferocious, warrior-like ways and embraced logic all those millennia ago, because right now he wanted to pop the man’s head like an overripe carbuncle. “Repeat that,” he said.

“I saa-aid that you nee-eedn’t have come so faa-ar,” the man said in his odd, sing-song voice. “We didn’t thiii-ink that _Starfleet_ would respooo-ond.”

“You put your distress call out on a Starfleet frequency, Mr. D’niel,” Spock pointed out.

“I wouldn’t call it a distreeee-ess call so much as an RFQ.”

“It used a distress call protocol.”

“RFQ?” Scotty inquired, clearly not understanding.

“Request for Quotaaaaa-ation,” D’niel answered in a simpering way that was probably meant to sound condescending. “You know, for repaaaaa-airs to our power systems.”

“Nevertheless, we have arrived, we have adequate personnel and equipment to address whatever problems you may have been experiencing, and we are prepared to make any repairs that may be necessary.”

“Are you sure you’re quaaaaaa-alified? Our systems are quite temperamentaaaaaaaa-al.”

Spock wondered if the man might choke on his own speech pattern. “You have standing before you the inventor of trans-warp transportation techniques,” Spock said primly, indicating Scotty. 

“I think I can fix yer wee fuse box,” Scotty assured him with a smile. 

D’niel looked Scotty up and down as if he were a smudge on his impeccably tailored pantleg. “But you see, we’re requiiiiiiii-ired to secure three competing bids before we have any wooooo-ork done. It’s our corporate policy. I can’t just let you in.”

“We are a Starfleet vessel, we do not charge for services rendered,” Spock said. “I do not understand your reluctance to accept our help – is there something you are hiding, Mr. D’niel?”

“Certainly not!” D’niel answered too quickly, in a manner that suggested to Spock that he was, in fact, hiding something – something he didn’t want Starfleet or the Federation to know about. Spock also wondered if Sulu would be willing to lend him his _katana_.

D’niel went to the receptionist’s desk and made a phone call. Within minutes, a no-nonsense Andorian engineer in coveralls entered to show the Enterprise team to the site of the problem.

“Before you goooo-o, we’ll just need you to siiiiii-ign in,” D’niel said, and stood by as each member of the team presented their credentials.

\----

“What did you say you do here?” Scotty asked, trying to make conversation as the Andorian led them into the bowels of the building where they’d arrived. They had been walking past vast rooms, each of which was filled with thousands of shiny, silver storage vessels, roughly three by one meters, which seemed to stretch on for acres.

“I didn’t, but it’s cryonics.”

“Cryonics?” Scotty almost laughed, but the Andorian shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a job,” he replied.

“But weren’t all of the cryogenically preserved people supposed to have been revived over twenty years ago? Wasn’t there a law or act of Parliament or something?” Scotty asked. “What’re these people still here for?”

Again the Andorian shrugged. “Something about not having sufficient contact details, maybe? I dunno, they don’t pay me to ask questions, they pay me to maintain the systems.”

Spock traded a look with Scotty. “So these people have been sent here for what, until someone can find next of kin?” Scotty asked.

“If someone were looking for their next of kin, then they wouldn’t be here.”

“You are saying that no one has ever made an active attempt to return these people to their surviving families?” Spock asked.

“Or maybe some of the surviving families don’t want to be found. Would _you_ want to deal with great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandma around the Gazorkian Beast every Spiegelmas? A total stranger? Not a lot of people were too thrilled to be reunited with long-lost family at the time, so when the company exhausted its efforts finding families, we moved them all here. The Federation pays a small maintenance fee, and everybody’s happy. Well, most everybody. The ones that hadn’t paid up are gone, anyways.”

“Paid up?” Spock said, feeling more disgusted the farther this conversation went. 

“Yeah, well, if their subscriptions expired, or weren’t adequately financed, they were returned to their homeworlds, postage paid.”

Spock stopped walking, and waited, tapping his foot, until the Andorian and the rest of the Engineers from the Enterprise noticed he’d done it and doubled back to join him. “Do you not realize what you have done here? These people entered into a good-faith contract to be revived once cures for their conditions had been found – they are owed the courtesy of having that reviewed periodically, are they not?”

“And who’s going to pay for those cures?” the Andorian asked. “Not the Federation. Last I checked, this was still a capitalist society and doctors no longer worked for free – not since the Health Insurance Company Wars of 2118.”

Spock paused to breathe very slowly through his nose, lest he lose his patience to an emotional outburst. Now he knew why Mr. D’niel was uncomfortable having a Starfleet vessel poking around in his business. “I think I must speak to someone in charge, please.”

\----

“Mr. D’niel, I am afraid I must have some very strong words with you.” Spock was speaking even before D’niel’s assistant had shown him into his spacious, well-appointed office suite.

“Commander Spooooo-ock, how nice to see you again, and so soon.”

“Mr. D’niel, I must strenuously object to the way you are conducting your business here. I find it unconscionable that you –“

“I have wonderful, happy news for you, Commaaaaan-der,” D’niel went on, ignoring Spock and talking over him.

“What?” Spock asked testily.

“I have wonderful neeee-ews,” D’niel repeated. “It turns out that one of our clients is an ancestor of yours.”

“That is impossible – no Vulcan has ever been cryogenically preserved.”

D’niel consulted a file on his PADD. “This one’s not a Vulcan – human, in fact. One Nicholas Halden. Perhaps he is related by marriage?”

Spock suddenly stood up straighter. “What did you say the name was?”

“Nicholas Haaaaaaal-den. There is a note here that his comfort pod is to be delivered to one Commander Spock care of Starfleet Command on June 15, 2262…”

“What was the date?”

“June 15, 2262? Oh deeeee-ear.”

“That was nearly two years ago,” Spock said, anger coloring his features. He loomed over D’niel’s desk, fingering his phaser and wishing there was such a thing as the Vulcan Death Grip. “When were you going to notify me?”

“Now?”

The fact that he managed not to snap the man’s neck one-handed Spock chalked up to the good manners his mother had instilled in him as a child.

\----

“It is Neal, it must be,” Spock said as he stood at parade rest beside the “Re-animation Reflecting Pool,” a brackish-looking pond filled with sluggish-looking koi that sat in an ill-lit garden just outside the offices of the QryoGenX Corporation. Only the rapid clenching and unclenching of his jaw muscles betrayed his agitation.

“It seems impossible,” Nyota said nervously; she had beamed down to be with him as soon as he’d informed the Captain of his conversation with Mr. D’niel.

“The name is one of his more well-known aliases. Who else could it be?”

“I don’t know, Spock.”

“Who else would know about us, would leave such a message? Nyota, what if --” Spock closed his mouth.

“What?”

“What if it is him but he is not revivable? I do not think I could bear that.” This had been the case in nearly half of the cryogenically preserved people who had been revived two decades earlier – they had been judged too far gone to be helped.

“We will know when we know,” she said simply, then took his hand and squeezed it. Five minutes later, D’niel, accompanied by another man, wheeled one of the silver containment vessels Spock had seen earlier in the day out into the garden. 

“Here we aaaaa-are,” D’niel simpered, making sure that the “comfort pod” was situated between him and Spock. “We just have some paperwork for you to complete, and you can take immediate possession.”

Spock signed and initialed perhaps 275 forms and legal papers and then took a close look at the sleek module. It was so well-sealed there was no visible seam or opening, no window to allow for the viewing of its contents. “I cannot see him,” he commented to Nyota.

“The pod is state of the art and has been hermetically sealed. Any porthole would cause degradation 0of its inhabitant.”

“How do I know who is inside?”

D’niel smiled. “Isn’t that half the fun, Commander?” he asked, then handed Spock a thick folder of information and took his leave.

\----

Spock looked up as McCoy emerged from the surgical suite, where the comfort pod had been delivered once it had been beamed to the Enterprise. “I’ve got good news and good news,” the doctor informed him with a smile. “It’s definitely Caffrey in there – the DNA sample they provided is a match for what we have on record. And his disease is curable. But it’ll take some time.” 

Spock’s relief nearly unmanned him; he was temporarily speechless, but Nyota was squeezing his hand joyfully. “How much time, Doctor?” she asked.

“I must see him,” Spock said impatiently.

“Believe me, you don’t want to. These patients are – well, it’s not pretty, Spock. Picture a slightly healthier-looking version of an Egyptian mummy and you won’t be far off.”

“I do not care, I must see him.”

“Well, I do care, so back off. We need time for the hypothermia to resolve and for the treatment for the leukemia to work. He’s waited 250 years, Spock, another week won’t hurt him.”

“But another week may _kill me_ , Doctor.”

McCoy squeezed Spock’s upper arm supportively. “You Vulcans can be such drama queens when you’ve a mind,” he muttered, and Spock raised an eyebrow. McCoy then held out a data cube to him. “This was stored with the body – it’s got all of his medical records and personal data, plus a message titled, ‘For the little green man.’ I can only assume that’s meant for you.”

Spock took the cube and stared at it, not entirely believing the turn this day had taken. To have Neal back, to be able to see him again, filled him with a kind of joy he hadn’t felt since childhood, and a sense of expectation and promise he hadn’t allowed himself to feel since he’d had to leave Neal behind in New York. 

“Now get out of here and let me do my work,” McCoy said gently, and shooed Spock and Nyota out of sickbay.

\----

“Are you sure about this? The message is addressed to you.”

“I am unaccountably disquieted, Nyota,” Spock replied. He had asked her to accompany him to his quarters, where he would explore the information that was to be found on the data cube. “I cannot explain it, or the reasons that I do not want to view it alone, because I do not understand them myself.”

“You’re nervous, Spock. It’s not every day the love of your life returns from the dead.”

“He was not the love of my life.”

“Vulcans aren’t supposed to lie,” she chided, and Spock was forced to concede the point – he had neither pursued nor reciprocated the advances of anyone since he’d left Neal behind, and thought of him with regret often. “Now are you going to play that file or what?”

It took several minutes for the ship’s computer to convert the video file, but soon enough it flicked on and Spock found himself staring at an image of Neal's friend Mr. Moz. He looked bad – tired and pallid, with lines around his eyes and mouth.

“This message is for Commander Spock, a half-Vulcan, half-human of my acquaintance who was stationed on a starship called the USS Enterprise. 

“I wish I could say I was delivering good news today, though if this all works out, maybe I am. I hope I am. If Neal knew I was doing this, he’d kill me. But if you’re seeing this, Spock, then I’m already dead, so what does it matter?

“Neal died today.” 

Moz was silent for more than a minute while he composed himself, picking at the cuticles on his fingernails; tears flowed from his eyes down tracks already well-worn. “He’s gone too soon, and too harshly, but you already knew that. _He_ knew that. He told me everything, you know, which is why I’m doing this. Because I think you can save him, and give him the second chance he deserves.

“He was happy, in the end though, resigned to it, philosophical. And he never stopped thinking about you. He said you’d given him a gift, though he would never say what. And he was never with anyone else, you know, because I think no one quite measured up. So I’m sending him to you, and I hope to God this works.” Moz removed his glasses, and, clearly overcome by emotion, reached out to stop the recording. 

It restarted a second later, when he’d apparently composed himself. He indicated a pile of documents on the table in front of him. “These are trusts I am setting up so that Neal will be taken care of, financially. He’ll have a home and plenty of cash while he lives, and I hope he’ll be happy. I hope you’ll _both_ be happy, because while I only met you the one time, I know that Neal's a great judge of character, and he thought very highly of you, Spock. 

“I’m going to go now, and I’ve left another message for him, but he’ll probably be too mad to watch it for a while, so tell him I’m doing this for him, will you? And that I love him. Thanks.” With that, he switched the camera off again, and the video playback was over.

Spock turned his head at a sniffle from Nyota. “Ohhh!” she sobbed, and Spock produced a soft handkerchief for her to use. 

“It is… a remarkable thing he has done,” Spock said quietly, moved by the video he’d just watched. “But foolhardy. What if nothing could be done?”

“Then Neal would be just as dead,” she replied. “He wanted to believe he could give Neal the rest of his life back, and he was right. He was a very good friend.” She slid her arm around Spock’s waist and hugged him to her. “What are you going to do?”

“I am going to give Neal the second chance he deserves,” Spock answered simply. 

\----

The next days were interminable, but Spock filled them with double shifts to distract himself, and Jim even let him. There was plenty to do – they were still in orbit around Gamma Cephus IV, where Spock was leading an investigation into QryoGenX’s operations; a team of forensic accountants, agents, and consultants from Starfleet’s investigative division were on their way to take over, and if the army of executives, lawyers and crisis communications experts Mr. D’niel had brought to bear even before the Enterprise team had finished their repairs was any indication, they’d have the fight of their lives ahead of them. Spock mostly took delight in intimidating D’niel; he often fondled an uncharged phaser during the course of their meetings.

In his off-hours, Spock tried to keep to his quarters for the most part, studiously avoided McCoy at all costs, ever since the day after Neal's return when the doctor spotted him in the corridor outside and accused him of “lurking like a turkey buzzard over a week-old carcass.” Meditation did nothing to soothe Spock, since he could not concentrate enough to enter the appropriate headspace for it. By the end of the week, he was a more or less permanent fixture in Nyota’s quarters, which she bore remarkably well seeing as their sleep schedules were so different.

At long last, on the morning of the 10th day (Spock soon learned the futility in pointing out McCoy’s inaccurate initial estimate of the time it was supposed to have taken when a laser scalpel was thrown at his head), Spock was asked to go to sickbay.

Spock followed Nurse Chapel to the room where Neal had been receiving treatment, a quiet space in the back near McCoy’s office. The space was small – McCoy’s and Chapel’s bodies obscuring Spock’s view of the patient until he was able to squeeze himself inside, though he stood against the wall to keep out of the way.

Neal appeared to be… exactly the same as the day Spock left him, much to Spock’s relief. He was perhaps too pale and underweight, but otherwise, his face and body were unchanged. There was a flurry of movement, as McCoy injected something into Neal's neck with a hypospray, then rested his hand briefly atop his head. 

“It won’t be long now,” McCoy said, moving to the side and beckoning for Spock to come forward.

Spock stood with his hips pressed against the edge of the biobed, and self-consciously took Neal's hand in his. It was warm to the touch, if limp, but Spock could feel nothing, no emotional transference of any kind. He looked at McCoy, concerned.

“Give it a few moments, and be prepared for some disorientation,” McCoy advised reassuringly.

Spock nodded and bent back over Neal, willing him to open his eyes. It took more than a few moments – three and a half minutes by Spock’s calculation, but at last there was a flutter of eyelashes, a deeper intake of breath and then Neal opened his eyes. For several seconds, his eyes darted around the room, seeming not able to see or to process any of the information they were taking in; his blood pressure and heart rates rose correspondingly, causing McCoy to make tsking noises and reach for another hypospray. But at last, as Spock leaned closer and called his name, Neal's bright blue eyes seemed to be able to focus, and they looked directly into Spock’s. 

Neal smiled. Spock raised an eyebrow. Neal reached up a hand to push it back down.

And then Spock took Neal into his arms and held him so tight he expected McCoy to tell him off for endangering his patient.

\----

It was a week later, and Neal's recovery had progressed enough that he was able to leave sickbay for short periods. As before, Spock brought him to the Observation Deck. 

“What have you got there?” Neal asked, eyeing the array of PADDs, data cubes, and actual books Spock had brought along and set in neat piles on a table in the corner.

“Now that you are not sleeping as much, I expect that you will become restless and bored with your inactivity, so I have brought you… entertainments.”

“You don’t say?”

“You have nearly 250 years of Earth history to catch up on, not to mention all of the music, art, and literature of scores of other cultures that are members of the Federation. I have taken the liberty of assembling a brief compendium for you.”

“Brief?” Neal asked, eyeing the rather large pile. 

“You will have ample time, I think, before Dr. McCoy pronounces you fit to leave sickbay.”

Neal leaned into Spock and huffed a laugh, a happy sound Spock was getting used to hearing, and one that gave him great pleasure. “And what is that?” Neal leaned forward and tried to lift up the largest book, though the muscle weakness and numbness in his extremities he was still experiencing since being revived made it difficult for him to actually complete the task.

Spock colored as he hefted the book – in Neal's day it would have been called a coffee table book – and settled it on his own lap. Neal snuggled up closer to him and slid his arm behind his back on the couch they shared.

“’Neal Caffrey – The Man, The Icon?’” Neal read the title.

Spock colored a deeper shade of olive. “Some months ago, there was a retrospective of your work that toured the Alpha Quadrant. I attended and purchased the companion volume from the gift shop.”

Neal still had an incredulous look on his face. “I still can’t believe it,” he said, as Spock leafed through the oversized pages for him, taking in works he’d forgotten he’d ever done, and quite a few of his forgeries he was certain had never been detected. “My work is… famous!” He shook his head as the pages turned.

“You are noted for your use of color, perspective, and light. Your reproductions are considered to be a commentary on the art world itself, the fact you signed them, however circumspectly, viewed as a condemnation of the indolence of an art establishment grown fat and lazy by the early 21st century.”

“Wow – I was just trying to make a buck with forgeries.”

Spock turned a few pages. “This one is my favorite.”

“’Chrysler Building No. 2’?”

“Your use of bold color intrigues me, as does the obvious Deco influence. On a class trip to the Chicago Art Institute when I was a teenager, I sat and stared at it for over an hour.”

“Really?”

“I was so moved, I purchased a reproduction for my bedroom. Many of my peer group did, as I recall.”

“Huh, I don’t doubt it – it’s pretty phallic,” Neal mumbled.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. Seriously, it’s in a museum?”

“It has long been in a private collection, but is lent out on occasion, yes. It is quite iconic. I have always wondered if there was a Chrysler Building No.1. That has been the subject of much scholarly debate.”

“Well, there was, but it got blown up.”

Spock quirked an eyebrow. 

“It’s a long story.”

“We now have plenty of time for you to tell it.”

“And I suppose the statute of limitations is well in the past. Tell me, Spock, what do you know of Nazi U-boats?”

\----

Thank you for your time.

**Author's Note:**

> The lovely Embroiderama wrote a companion piece to this story: [For Me, It Isn't Over](http://embroiderama.livejournal.com/515472.html)
> 
>  **Author’s Notes**  
>  * The two Adele songs that Spock listens to are “Someone Like You” and “Chasing Pavements”  
> * The quote Neal uses in Part 3, “I don't need a certain number of friends, just a number of friends I can be certain of,” is attributed to Alice Walker.  
> * I’m sure I’m playing fast and loose with canon; like: are Cardassians space-faring in the 21st century? Or have they traveled to the past to meet with the Vendorians? I don’t know and I don’t really care – I needed a bad guy.  
> * This is officially the longest single fic I’ve ever written, so special thanks to JRosemary for the beta and Dmk0064 and LauraCollared for the moral support and encouragement.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [For Me, It Isn’t Over](https://archiveofourown.org/works/569302) by [embroiderama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/pseuds/embroiderama)




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